


Cold December Nights

by rosebud_girl



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brighton - Freeform, Brighton Pier, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, New Year's Eve, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Slow Burn, Sour Cherry Scones, Sussex university, Troye Sivan References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-06-30 05:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15745293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebud_girl/pseuds/rosebud_girl
Summary: “He's good isn't he?""I s'pose," I huff, grudgingly.I can't fight it any more. He's bloody good, and so fucking cool, even singing tacky Christmas songs. He's making the whole pub fall in love with him. No exceptions. The bastard.Christmas Cheese.  I love these guys.**New Year’s Eve update**





	1. The Black Dove

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the characters or some of the lines. Rainbow Rowell is amazing.  
> Thank you so much for all your kind comments and kudos. It means so much <3

**Simon**

“So tell me why we’re here again?” I ask as we make our way into a small pub in Kemptown instead of our usual Sunday afternoon trip to The Watford, mine and Penny’s local.

“Because somehow Penny’s got it into her head that I like some guy from her poetry class,” Agatha says. “I already told her I just like live music. I don’t get why she’s making such a big deal out of it.”

“So why did you steal the flyer from the fridge?” Penny asks.

“I’ve not stolen it,” Agatha huffs.

But when I ask to see it, she digs it out from her bag and passes it over. I glance at the image of a slim guy dressed all in black, his dark hair falling round his face, sitting with an acoustic guitar. So this is the famous Baz I've been hearing about for the last few weeks. He looks vaguely familiar; I've probably seen him round campus.

“Didn’t know you were into the Emo look now, Agatha," I say. "I mean, the guy looks like Brenden Urie and Ezra Miller had a love child.”

“You’re such a weirdo, Simon. I know he’s not exactly my type, but look at his face, it’s perfect. I just saw the photo and thought, ‘Wow, we’d make a beautiful couple, my gold to his black. Both of us pale as snow…’”

She’s right of course.

“Can you actually hear yourself?” Penny snorts, rolling her eyes and folding her arms. “You do know you just said that out loud, don’t you?”

You gotta love Agatha’s frankness; she’s beautiful for sure, I mean I wanted her from the first moment I saw her, her long pale hair rippling in the wind as she crossed the playground, but she’s so fucking vain. We did actually date from the end of year eleven to about half way through sixth form, but I always thought she was out of my league, almost untouchable, and I think she knew it. 

The pub is already pretty busy, so Agatha and Penny head downstairs to the basement to find a table whilst I go to the bar get the first round in. When I get downstairs, the girls are sitting in a booth right near the stage. I say stage; it’s really just a slightly raised area with a chair and a mic stand. The whole set up is cosy and intimate. I hope the guy can sing or it could be very awkward, no slipping out quietly without being noticed.

Agatha is sitting daintily in a leather armchair, her legs curled under her. As I approach I realise she is moaning to Penny about her life in Bristol, her annoying house mates and how intense the vet course is. I mean, she’s doing what she’s always wanted to do, she should be happy. But then Agatha never really seems to know quite what she wants, at least not once she’s got it. I think it’s the thrill of the chase for her; actually sticking with something, well, that’s another matter.

I sit back, half listening and look round the bar. We don’t usually come to this part of Brighton, we tend to go to our local, which often has live music, or go out to one of the bigger venues in the city centre. It seems like a pretty cool place though, almost like a Victorian drinking den, with its vintage furniture, books, cracked chandeliers and wine bottles covered with candle wax. Flyers on the table advertise other gigs and a stand-up comedy night – might be worth checking out at another time.

“So what’s his deal anyway? Has he got a girlfriend?”

It seems the conversation has moved back to tonight’s main event and Agatha is trying to pump Penny for information.

“Baz? I’m not sure, I’ve never seen him with anyone, but I don’t really know him that well,” Penny says. “He’s only in one of my classes, and I didn’t like him that much to start with. I did my best to ignore him actually.”

No surprises there. Penelope has this thing about not having too many friends; she never had time for most of our classmates at school. (“There are only so many hours in the day, Simon. Two, three people – that’s all any of us have time for”).

"So what's he like then?" Agatha presses.

“Well, to start with he seemed really up himself, always rolling his eyes and sneering at the other students’ answers, without offering any opinions of his own,” she continues. “But then I had to pair up with him on a project and I realised that although he is incredibly posh, it's not all public schoolboy front."

"What do you mean?" Agatha says prickling slightly.  I think she's offended by the posh comment - she comes from a very good family.

"I mean," Penny says glaring at her, "he’s really well-read and eloquent. I think he’d been hoping for a bit more of a sparring session in the seminars, rather than people simply parroting the usual interpretations from the course notes. Seriously, he's one clever bastard."

"Right," Agatha nods.  "What else?"

Penny takes a swig of her beer and then adds, "It’s weird because despite our differences, we both worked in the same way; we'd make these huge lists of stuff we wanted to include or still needed to find out."

Agatha and I share a look; we spent enough years at the business end of those lists to know exactly what she's talking about.

"At one point though, I thought we were going to end up in a fight when we were looking at the representation of women in contemporary poetry,” she laughs, touching the side of her crazy witch glasses flushing slightly, “until I realised he was basically playing devil’s advocate and he looked at me with this wicked grin.”

“You sound like you want to date him yourself Penny,” Agatha frowns. “I mean, are you sure it’s just his brain you’re interested in?” She laughs briefly, but the eyes that bore into Penny’s are cold and her delicate chin juts out, an expression of unspoken challenge.

It’s quite terrifying. I’m keeping out of this.

“The fuck Ags - he’s not really my type is he?” Penny says. “He’s pretty for sure, but too pale and skinny. Anyway, I’ve got Micah haven’t I? I assure you I’m not on the lookout for a new model. He’s all yours, knock yourself out.”

I shake my head. Poor guy; once Agatha sets her mind on something, (someone) they're done for. It's like moths to a flame. I look down at my almost-empty pint glass, trying not to laugh as the look on her face switches to unbridled delight – she’s got a new victim. Sorry I mean object of affection.

“So… do you girls want a refill before the gig starts?” I say, hoping we’re done with the scrapping.

“Oh, thanks Simon. Same again if that’s alright,” Penny says swigging the last of the beer from her bottle.

“I know it’s meant to be my round,” Agatha says, smiling up at me sweetly (manipulator), “but do you mind going, so we don’t miss the start?” She digs around in her voluminous bag – god knows what she’s got in there – and thrusts a twenty at me. “Get some crisps too if you like; it’s been at least a couple of hours since you last ate, you must be starving.”

She knows me too well.

Our local, does the best cream teas on a Sunday afternoon. Penny laughed at me the first time I ordered one after a particularly heavy Saturday night (“Seriously, how old are you, Simon? Forty?”). But I’m telling you, their range of scones is legendary; my favourites are the sour cherry ones. With slabs of ice-cold butter. My stomach rumbles at the thought and I wonder wistfully what bar snacks they might have here. I’m still at the bar when I hear a muffled voice as the singer takes to the stage and then the first few chords on an acoustic guitar which grow louder and more distinct as I make my way back downstairs. I had to get crisps. They don’t do scones, but I had hoped there might at least be sandwiches.

I don’t really register the song to start with and only realise it’s one of my favourites when the guy starts singing. He’s got the best voice I’ve heard in a long while, soft and husky with both depth and sweetness – an unusual combination. I can’t see him through the small crowd that’s gathered, he must be sitting down, but I can feel his voice right in my gut, like a slow pull, drawing me in and making me hurry to get back to my seat. I see Agatha and Penny first; they’re watching him transfixed – Agatha with a strange mixture of awe and lust. She’s obviously trying to catch his eye and she keeps touching her hair and her lips. She’s in full-on seduction mode. I hand the girls their drinks and try to squeeze back in next to Penny.

Which is when it all goes horribly wrong.

I jog the table, knocking over the empty bottles and slopping my pint onto Agatha’s pale pink top. She jumps up and I look desperately for something to try to wipe her down with, half offering her a soggy flyer, before lowering it when I see her face.

“Simon you idiot!” She hisses through gritted teeth – not wanting to make a scene, but furious with me for ruining her perfect composure.

“Fuck, I’m sorry Ags,” I stammer, trying to get back up, knocking the table again as Penny grabs the glasses to steady them.

“Just sit down.” Agatha spits. “Honestly, you’re so clumsy.” Her eyebrows are almost touching in the middle and her nose is wrinkled. She makes a frustrated little growl in the back of her throat and storms off to the ladies’ loo.

I sit back down feeling like I’ve just been dumped all over again. Penny puts her hand on my thigh and gives it a squeeze of reassurance, but looks embarrassed. I feel bad; I know Penny hates a scene. Baz has just finished the first song and is looking over at Agatha’s disappearing back with a slight smirk on his face. I follow his gaze, but when I look back, he puts his head down and starts strumming the intro to the next song. He looks just like on his flyer; black hair falling in soft waves, framing his face, eyes closed, lost in the music. I watch his hands as he plays the guitar, mesmerised by the way his graceful fingers move over the strings.

After a few minutes, Agatha returns to the table, slipping daintily through the crowd. She still looks furious.

“Alright, Ags?” I ask, hoping that my apology is evident.

“I think this top is ruined – it’s a silk-cashmere blend, dry clean only. I smell like a brewery. I'm fine, Simon. Obviously,” she scowls.

Not forgiven then.

She tucks herself back onto the armchair like a cat in front of a fire and tries to compose herself. Her perfectly re-glossed lips pout round the straw of her overpriced craft gin and tonic as she looks up at the singer through long lashes. He must feel her stare as he gazes right back as he sings the last few bars, the air crackling with tension. Agatha is working her magic alright. Penny starts clapping and gives him a wave when she sees him looking over. He pushes his hair back from his face and smiles at her, transforming him from brooding and handsome to downright beautiful.

The strange pull in my stomach intensifies, and wondering how that smooth, black hair would feel grasped in my fist becomes number one on my Baz list.

Wait, what? I have a Baz list?

Since when?

 

**Baz**

He’s here.

Penny’s housemate.

@notjonsnow, the first person tagged in every story of her Instagram feed.

The one with the tawny skin, golden curls and the blue, blue eyes.

Yes, I admit it. I’ve been stalking since I saw them in the library last year.

And plotting how I could meet him.

I think he’s in the blonde girl’s bad books; there was a bit of a commotion with some drinks earlier - trouble in paradise? He still looks slightly flustered, pushing his fingers through his mess of curls. It’s completely distracting and I find myself mirroring his action, wondering whether I’ll ever get the chance to tangle my own fingers in those bronze locks.

Penny grins and waves and I can’t help but smile back. After all, she’s leading the applause at the end of the songs – most of the crowd are treating me as background music to their Sunday afternoon. I've been dying to find a good reason to get her to come to one of my gigs since the start of term, so when she’d said that an old school friend was coming to stay for the weekend, I’d mentioned it casually and given her a flyer. And then because I’m a constant disappointment to myself, I’d said she should bring her boyfriend too. She’d given me a slightly quizzical look at that.

"My boyfriend? Micah lives in America, it would be a bit of a long way to come," she laughed. "Do you mean Simon?"

"Is that the guy you hang round with?"

"Yeah. We live together, but we're just friends - I've known him since we were kids."

And now, he's here. I could almost reach out and touch him across the short space between us.

Penny’s other friend is undeniably gorgeous, all pouty lips and flicking hair – she’s trying to catch my eye. Sorry love, you’re really not my type, but I give her a long cool look anyway – let her make what she wants of that. Mr Ocean Eyes on the other hand… I realise I’m staring, but he’s breathtakingly handsome up close despite his rather dishevelled grey trackie bottoms and green football shirt (or maybe because of it – I’m disturbed, ask anyone). He looks like he’s made of sunshine and goodness; from this distance I can see a scattering of freckles and moles on his cheeks with more forming constellations on his toned arms.

I play for another half an hour, trying not to stare, but it's like trying to not watch an open fire. And then, thank Christ, it’s time for a break. I head upstairs to grab a pint and some water; I’m so bloody thirsty.

It must be Penny’s round as she’s leaning on the bar trying to get served. She looks young for her age, all chubby cheeks and glasses - a kind of school-girl geek chic, but I don’t think it's her age that’s the issue here.

“What can I get you, love?” the guy behind the bar asks me, totally ignoring her.

“I think my friend here was first,” I state coldly, hating the almost pitying look he gives me as she squeezes my arm.

“Thanks, Baz,” she grins. “Can I get you something?”

“I tell you what, let me get these, a thank you for coming to support me. It means a lot to see a friendly face in the crowd.”

I’ve played to enough empty bars to not really care, but I find I actually mean it. People irritate me as a rule, but Penny brings out my good side. She’s a fierce debater, I don’t mind saying. Being smart is no fun without someone to bounce ideas off, and she is so sharp and confident that every minute with her makes me come alive. We can be screaming at each other one minute and then collapsing with laughter the next, much to the bemusement of the rest of our class mates.

“You’ll join us for a quick one though - Agatha’s dying to meet you.” It’s a statement, not an invitation.

My lip curls in amusement. “Fine, but it really will have to be a quick one - I’ve got to be back on in a few minutes.”

This is actually happening.

I let her lead the way back downstairs, heart in my mouth. I can't do this. I’m not going to be able to talk to him. Everyone else will get my charm, but I know I’ll end up either ignoring him, or sneering something cruel. It’s what I do. And it'll be a fucking shit storm. A couple of people slap my shoulder as I go past, with a “nice one man,” but I’m too busy staring at the broad shoulders filling a green football shirt, ‘Snow’ and the number 1 printed on the back. Okay, so now I get the notjonsnow handle.

Simon _Snow_.

“Look who I found propping up the bar,” Penny says as she hands them their drinks. “Guys, this is Baz. Baz - my housemate Simon, and our friend from home, Agatha.”

“Wellbelove,” she smiles demurely, like she's used to introducing herself in formal situations, although she's fluttering her eyelashes slightly. “It’s nice to meet you Baz; Penelope’s told us so much about you.”

Penelope? I try not to smirk. Well isn’t she just lovely? Beautiful manners and well-spoken; my parents would be thrilled if I brought her home. She'd fit in so well at the club. (Better than me these days.)

I can see Penny's also hiding a smirk and I raise an eyebrow in response.

And then.

“Alright, mate?” Simon says, holding out his hand, a huge lopsided grin on his face. “Any friend of Penny’s…”

His voice is deeper than I'd expected, and slightly rough round the edges. It hits me straight in the gut.

I love it.

I swap my pint over to the other hand, sending up a small word of thanks that the slight dampness of my palms can be attributed to the condensation from my glass. Quickly wiping my now free hand on my jeans, I reach out to take his.

“Snow,” I say, my lip curling into a sneer, despite my intention to be nice.

His smile falters slightly (I hate myself) but his hand is steady. Then his fingers close round mine and I have to stop a gasp from escaping my lips. What the fuck? It’s like I’ve touched one of those Van de Graaff generators you get in science. I imagine that every hair on my body stands on end; my scalp prickles. I look up and if I’m not mistaken, the feeling is mutual. Even in this light, it’s possible to see his pupils dilate in surprise. I hold his gaze and his hand a fraction of a second longer than is normal before letting go, swapping my pint back and taking a long draft to try to still my racing heart.

When I set it on the table, wiping a small drip from the corner of my mouth, he is still looking at me, his mouth slack, colour flushing his cheeks. Interesting.

And extremely sexy.

“So, Agatha Wellbelove,” I say, hitting her with my best smile and noticing that unlike Simon, she has golden brown eyes. Probably a more classically attractive shade than his (which are just basic blue), but they don’t do it for me. “I know Penny’s been looking forward to you coming,” I continue. “And Simon has too I expect. Are you guys…?”

I let the question hang there and they both look at each other, her expression aghast.

“What? Seriously, no!" she says, quick to distance herself from any amorous connections to Simon.

Good news.

"I mean, we used to… but that was back at school, when we were kids, we’ve been just friends for ages now,” she adds.

And bad. My heart sinks.

I scoop both of her hands in mine and bring them to my lips, all fake chivalry. I’m sure she swoons. I feel nothing. I tilt my head back, looking at him over her hands as I kiss them.

“Too much for you, was she, _mate_?” I sneer, hating the fact that I’m taking the piss out of his south London accent.

That was a low blow, even for me. But the Pitch in me won't allow me to stop, and he won't want me anyway. So.

“I.. uh.. well…” he blusters, going an even deeper shade of red and swallowing.

He has the longest neck and his Adam’s apple catches as he swallows. Then he just turns on his heels and almost runs out of the room. Agatha seems genuinely confused, giggling slightly, so wrapped up in her own importance that she can’t see what’s happening right in front of her face.

Penny gives me a fierce look. “What the actual Fuck, Baz?”

Shit, I forgot how badass she is.


	2. It's hard to let people close when you're unlovable

**Simon**

What a complete and utter wanker.

What a total tosser.

What a fucking arse.

I’m so angry, I push my way out of the crowded bar, slamming my shoulder into the wall by the door as I do, and storm down the road towards the seafront. My cheeks are itchy and hot; I have to get away to cool down before the red mist descends. When I was a kid, I was moved from one foster home to another because I kept getting into fights. I wasn’t too bad when I was younger, but from about the age of eleven or twelve, if kids picked on me, I’d see red. It might have been for my moles (they used to say I had pox when I got changed for PE), or for my hair (too curly like Orphan Annie, or if I buzz cut it, then I was a thug or a chav), or for being in care or not having the right trainers. Didn’t matter; even if I’d been perfect, they’d have found something. I wouldn’t even realise I’d been in a fight until it was just me standing, fists clenched in front of me, and whichever kid had picked on me was lying on the ground rolling and moaning.

Penny has been the one constant in my life and it was only when her parents finally took me under their wing that I learnt to control my temper. Nowadays I can pull back before I ‘go off’ as Penny refers to it. As long as I get away from the situation and work on my breathing. Or hit something. (People who tell you that it won't make you feel better obviously haven't tried it.)

I sit on the wooden seat in the shelter on Marine Parade and stare out at the sea. I’d never seen the ocean before moving to Brighton and I find it calming. My breathing starts returning to normal as I watch the waves wash in and out.

And then Penny’s there.

"Simon?"

She doesn’t touch me; she knows to wait for me to make the first move, in case the mist is still there and I lash out at her. I never want to hurt Penny.

I can’t look at her, but I reach out for her hand and she takes it and sits down next to me in the shelter, pressing her side to mine. I feel wrung out. Even though I didn’t go off, it was close and it takes a lot of mental energy to pull back. I rest my head in her lap and she strokes my hair.

We don’t talk for a few minutes, then Penny says, "Can you tell me what happened?"

I shrug. "I dunno Pen, I don’t really want to think about it."

She's quiet for an unusually long time for Penelope. I expect it's because there's nothing she can say to fix this. We already know, deep down, that I'm broken. I just plaster over the cracks and mostly ignore them. That's how it works.

"You mustn’t mind Baz," she says after a while. "He can act like an arse, but I've come to realise that actually his rudeness is more because he’s socially awkward, than mean. Think Mr Darcy, rather than Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

"Thanks Penny," I mumble into her lap, "but you do know I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about don't you?"

It's one of the things I love about her; she always forgets not everyone reads like she does.

"Okay, well maybe Snape rather than Voldemort, you see what I'm saying?"

"Wait, wasn’t Snape a bad guy?"

She sighs, exasperated, but ruffles my curls. "Oh Simon, we watched the whole boxset in October, don’t you remember the scene when he gets eaten by the snake? Anyway, that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is I don’t know what happened in there, but when you left he looked pained and kind of just stood there, staring. His behaviour towards you was really weird, especially when I know he was looking forward to meeting you. He'd asked several times if you were coming."

I don't say anything. How can I explain to her without sounding like I've totally lost it? One minute I was fine, then the mist was coming down. It’s like in one sentence he managed to make me feel as small and as crap as the kids at school used to make me feel. Like it wiped out all the years of counselling and love that she and her family had given me.

"He just got my back up, flirting with Agatha, that's all," I say.

But I'm pretty sure I didn't actually care that he'd hit on Agatha. It was his air of superiority that got to me. That calm assurance that all public school toffs seem to have. I mean what gives him the right to take the piss? He’s never even met me before. But I don't say this to Penny. She'd only try to defend him.

"I’m so sorry, Simon, I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe he acted like such a tosser. I mean, he was like that at the start, but I know now that's how he acts when he's majorly out of his comfort zone. Seriously, he's never like that with me anymore, quite the opposite."

She defended him anyway.

"Maybe ex-boyfriends in scruffy football kit do make him feel out of his comfort zone," I say miserably.

"No, Simon, it’s not your fault. It’s his problem."

I huff-shrug into her lap and she gently pulls me back up to sitting.

"I guess you're not coming back and watch the rest of the gig."

What and give the bastard the chance to see I've been crying. No chance?

"Nah, I think I’ll call it a day. I’m going to go back and watch the footy."

"Thought so. Will you be okay?"

"Penny, don't worry, I'm fine."

"Alright, well if you're sure you're okay, I mean I can stay longer..."

I growl at her. I don't want to spoil her evening.

"Okay, okay, I’d better get back otherwise there’ll be hell to pay with Agatha – I’ll see you at home later, okay?"

"Fine."

She leaves me in the shelter. It’s for the best. Agatha will be a nightmare if her plan to ensnare Baz gets ruined.

Good luck to her.

Like I care.

They’re welcome to each other.

I decide to go down onto the beach instead of back to the flat. This side of the pier is always quieter, especially in winter. It’s already dark and the lights on the pier are stars twinkling in time with the distant music.

I sit down by the surf and start to make a collection of flat pebbles. Then I skim them to see how many bounces I can get. It's simple but focuses by mind on something other than grey eyes and graceful fingers.

I don’t know how long I've been sitting here. My arm aches from throwing stones and I’m getting cold (that’s not good. I’m never cold), and I realise I left my fucking hoodie in the pub. Hopefully one of the girls will bring it back for me. I message Penny to see if she has it. There's no reply but there's no way I'm going back to the pub and risk bumping into him.

Now I'm really pissed off. It was my best one; Penny bought if for me for my birthday.

When I get home, I stand outside the house, listening to hear if there is any sound from the girls. The thought of seeing Agatha at the moment makes my cheeks feel hot and itchy again. She didn't mean anything, I mean she's just Agatha isn't she. But I still feel hurt and humiliated the way she distanced herself from me so quickly, like she was embarrassed.

I enter the house as quietly as I can. Which isn't very quietly as I trip over my kit bag where I'd abandoned it earlier today. So I end up switching on the light after all. Penny's coat and my hoodie are hung up on the pegs, but there is no sign of Agatha's jacket. I sigh and head upstairs to have a shower. I put it on at full blast, hoping that the pounding water will drown out my thoughts.

Usually I don't think. It doesn't help things and you can drive yourself crazy. But tonight, I can't seem to shut off. I don't know what this afternoon was all about. I'd been so drawn to his voice and couldn't take my eyes off him. Which in itself is strange, I mean, he's a bloke isn't he?

Maybe it was just contagion from the sexual tension passing between him and Agatha.

I dunno. I’m no good at this

There was a time that I thought Agatha and I might make it. We were settled, we were sorted, her parents liked me; I'd even spent Christmas there at the end of lower sixth. Penny always told me I deserved to be happy after my shitty childhood. Agatha was my golden girl, my happy ending. But after two years, she just said she didn't want to be with me anymore.

I didn't fight it - I knew deep down she was right.

But I thought I was over her. I mean, since her, I haven't really wanted to be with anyone else, but I didn't think that that meant I still had feelings for her. Penny has been everything I've needed emotionally, plus there's never been an inkling of anything more than friendship between us, which keeps things simple. But tonight has made me wonder if that wound is fully healed. Why else would I have reacted so strongly? It had really hurt this afternoon when she brushed our relationship off so lightly in front of Baz

Like it was nothing.

Like I was nothing.

Agatha's the only person I've ever dated.

It meant something to me.

And then when he said... and the way he said it.

I _really_ don't want to think about it, but I can't seem to stop. Most likely they're somewhere together right now with their crackling electricity spilling out everywhere, confusing people. They're probably far better suited to one another than she and I ever were; both posh, both smart, both from good families, fuck's sake, their parents probably know each other.

But he didn't seem like that. Not when he was playing. He didn't seem snooty and cruel, but a true artist, beautiful and slightly melancholy; lost almost.

I keep picturing him running his hands through his hair, his slender fingers strumming the guitar and that voice as he'd sung... My stomach clenches again in a very confusing way, so I switch the water to ice cold and push down the feelings rising in me. I make myself remember the way his lips curled in a sneer as he mimicked my accent, the way Agatha giggled and fluttered her eyelashes. I know I'm not as posh as the rest of them, and I know it doesn't bother Penny but I had hoped Agatha didn't mind either.

Shows how much I know.

I think I'm going to be sick.

I turn off the shower and slam the tiles with my fists. Hard. The physical pain eases my mental torment and I get into bed watching the bruises beginning to bloom.

I wish I'd got pissed earlier, then at least I could pass out and forget all about it. I could've slept it off and then maybe tomorrow I could've spoken to Agatha, tried to fix it. I don't want to fall out with her. Not really.

But I can't seem to settle. The cold November air coming in through the window is laced with the sound of seagulls by the time I fall into a fitful sleep.

And when I get up, Agatha is still not here.

 

**Baz**

Well that's about as far from how I'd planed this evening going as I could have imagined. It's turned into a fucking tragedy. And it's all my fault.

I'd planned to win him over with my charm and talent. I'd worked out a set full of acoustic covers of some of the most beautiful songs I could think of, and he'd looked like he'd been listening, eyes half closed, relaxed, enjoying himself.

When Penny had introduced us, he was smiling, for Christ's sake, he’d seemed pleased to meet me; possibly even attracted to me. Or not.

And then, predictably, I killed it, cherophobe that I am.

So he just walked out.

And who can blame him?

But it was like he'd shoved a hook into my guts when he shook my hand, and then left them trailing behind him when he left.

I didn't expect it to hurt that bad.

I realise I'm now just staring as Penny gets up and follows him out of the pub.

Wellbelove, still on the pull, tries to act like she hadn't just been complicit in his humiliation. "What's got into them?" she asks, all innocently. "I don’t get why they left."

With both Simon and Penny gone, I think she just sees it as an advantage. She has me to herself. Much good it will do her.

"Well, I guess it's just you and me now," she practically purrs. "Why don't you go and get us another drink and then you can tell me about your tattoo." She runs her finger over my bicep, and I pretend not to notice. Actually I have to dig my fingers into my palm to stop me swatting her perfectly manicured hand away. She's relentless.

"I can't," I say - too dismayed to even bother sneering something cutting, "I've got to get back on stage or they'll never have me back."

She pouts slightly and flips her immaculate hair, then says, "Oh well, maybe afterwards then."

I just mutter something vague and non-committal as I pick up my pint and walk off.

Penny returns a short while later as I continue my perfectly crafted set. I can't meet her eye, I'm so ashamed. I'm also trying to avoid Agatha's doe-eyed gaze - I know she's probably reading far too much into songs lyrics intended for someone else entirely.

I just want to go back to my flat and drown my sorrows in peace and quiet.

I decide to change my set; I don't care whether I get asked back at this point. Fuck them all. I start with 'Impossible Year' by P!ATD, then I mentally raid my Aunt Fiona's record collection (truly dark as Pitch that one) and continue with a cover of Creep by Radiohead. Penny gives me a strange look so I indulge myself by heading down the Smiths/Nick Cave/Rufas Wainrwright road. Each song more self-loathing than the last.

With the change in tone, Agatha finally seems to get the message and her body language also changes. She's now sitting there with her arms and legs folded, her brow furrowed - she's fuming. I'd usually find the situation amusing, but right now I don't have the strength. I'm aware of them getting up - they're sitting almost on top of me, so it's impossible not to be. "Just come on, Penny," Agatha hisses.

For the second time this evening I watch Penny's retreating back.

I leave the pub around seven, slinging my guitar over my back and head to the beach to get some air. A solitary figure is sitting on the pebbles, silhouetted by the light from the Palace pier. He's skimming stones and is totally absorbed in the activity, like nothing else matters. I watch him for a while and wonder whether I should go and apologise. But I've had too much to drink and I know I'd only end up fucking up again. What's wrong with me?

I thrust my hands in my pockets and head back to my flat. Well actually it belongs to my Aunt Fiona, but I'm renting it from her right now.

Niall, my black cat, winds round my legs mewing accusingly as I let myself in. You'd think I hadn't fed him for a week, rather than a few hours ago. I scoop him up and stare into his yellow eyes. "Hey little puff, shall we get you some dinner?"

He stares back at me like I'm an idiot, so I drop him gently to the floor. When I went to the cat rescue place, I was drawn to him immediately as he was sitting perfectly composed like a statue of the Egyptian cat goddess, Bastet. All the other cats seemed like they were trying to get my attention, but he was just sitting there, like he was above all of that. We fit perfectly. Obviously I couldn't call him Bastet, it would be too strange to have both of us with virtually the same name. But as he looked Egyptian, Niall seemed to be the next best option. So.

"How did this evening turn so sour so quickly, Niall?" I sigh as I empty a pouch into his bowl.

"Because," I imagine him saying, "you my dear Basilton are a coward. You know what you want. It's the one of the reasons you're here in Brighton rather than at Oxford. But you're too fucking weak. You seem to have a fear of letting yourself be happy. At this rate, you're going to be the last in the Pitch line, not because you refuse to marry a girl, but because you're going to end up alone in a flat in Hove, with only me for company. And even I can't stand the sight of your moping face for too long. It's why I don't always come home..."

Fucking traitor.

I go to scratch him affectionately behind the ear, but he flattens himself. Doesn't like being fussed when he's trying to eat. I know the feeling.

I message Penny to apologise. I don't get a reply. I didn't really expect to. If the situation were reversed, I certainly wouldn't want to have anything to do with me.

When I get to uni on Monday morning, I almost skip the poetry class. I end up arriving as late as possible to avoid awkward silences. The only seat left is the one next to Penny. Of course it fucking is.

I hover in the doorway, uncharacteristically self-conscious.

"Mr Pitch, nice of you to join us." Professor Possibelf says. "Please take a seat, we're about to discuss..."

Penny doesn't even look up as I sit down. Seriously? She’s still ignoring me? I try to catch her eye, but she faces forward, an ice-cold barrier between us. Conversely, she's on fire today; it's like watching a tiger devour its prey. She takes down all the other students and even gives Possibelf a run for her money.

I swallow my temper and manage to look bored and superior.

At the end of the seminar, Penny simply gathers up her notes and stalks out of the room.

Fine.

If that's how she wants it; I don't need her.

I'm the last to leave and as I haul my carcass off the chair, bones made of lead, Professor Possibelf puts a hand on my arm, a concerned look on her face. "Basilton, is everything okay?" she asks.

"S'fine," I say. I don't want to talk about it, especially not with my teacher.

"Are you sure? It's just I noticed you and Penny..."

"It's nothing. Really," I snap. Then I remember my manners, "Thank you for your concern, Professor, we just had a minor disagreement about LGBTQ representation in Game of Thrones."

I try to sound sincere, so that she will leave me alone. It must work, as she laughs lightly.

"Oh, good, nothing serious then. Well see you on Thursday, Mr Pitch."

I slope out of the room and head back to my flat. Honestly, why did she choose today to care? The lecturers aren't paid to care at university. That's what family and friends are for, right? Except when your family has all but disowned you for being a fucking disappointment and you push away anyone who may have been the closest thing to a friend you've made in over a year at this blessed institution.

Still, it's hard to let people close when you're unlovable.

At least that's the opinion of the over-priced counsellor my father sent me to for almost whole year before university. ("Your mother thought you might like to speak to someone about your... situation.")

Okay, so coming out to your very conservative father in the middle of an argument about university choices was probably not the best way to do it. My father was sarcastic and snarly. "You want to study music and poetry in Brighton instead of going to Oxford like the rest of the families? What are you, some kind of queer?"

"Yes, father, that's exactly what I am," I said dryly, trying not to let him see the pain and confusion that his thinly veiled disgust has caused. (I've practised in front of the mirror enough times over the years that I'm an expert now.)

He laughed to start with; he thought I was joking. Then of course, when he realised I was being serious, his face went blank. He didn't say anything for a while and it was so quiet in the library that I could hear his watch tick. Eventually he stood gracefully, shot his cuffs and gave me a long, cool look. "Well don't expect me to bank roll your depravity, you can talk to your bloody Aunt Fiona for that."

He sounded bored. He turned to leave adding, "And Basilton, don't expect to be welcomed home like the prodigal son, inked and perforated with some boyfriend hanging off your arm."

"Of course, Father," I say. "I think you've made your point."

Apparently though, I'm _not_ the first in the family to ignore tradition. Aunt Fiona went to Brighton to study in the 1990s. I did a bit of research on her Facebook account and she's got loads of photos scanned in of her and her mates in their grunge gear - all Doc Martins and Pixie's t-shirts (cliché), sitting on the beach drinking cider from plastic pint glasses and smoking roll-ups in dark pub basements.

So I paid her a visit in her London flat.

"Those were the days, Baz," she said as she poured the tea, still in her dressing gown even at two in the afternoon. "Back then, you could have a pint and a fag in a dingy pub, listening to some band, your eardrums bleeding. Music meant something then, you know, it had words and tunes that you had to grow to love - it was an art form. Not like nowadays when everything is so bloody sanitary and music is just repetitive lyrics."

"Father says he'll disown me if I study in Brighton," I said, picking up one of her posh biscuits and dunking it in her tea. I leant against her bookshelf and swung one ankle over the other. I sounded like I didn't give a shit.

"You're not going to be disowned, Basil," she said. "Is that what this visit is about? You're his only son and heir. Why do you think he told you to talk to me, you numpty? He knew I'd look out for you. He'll come round, and until then, you can stay in my flat - I'll boot the tenant out at the end of the summer. Now go home and study, get the grades you need to go to bloody Brighton and meet a bloke."

"Thanks Fiona," I said, giving her one of my rare smiles.

I know I'm her favourite and I can always wind her round my little finger. (I think she gets pleasure at sticking two fingers up at my father, she always felt my mother had scraped bottom when she married a Grimm - "Little more than farmers - wine merchants my arse.")

Well Father, you got two out of three right, I think, as I stare in the mirror at my eyebrow ring and the tattoo of an Egyptian-style falcon over a full moon (in memory of my mother). But as for the last part...

Unlovable and with an ability to suck the happiness out of any situation. Doesn't bode well for getting anyone to hang off my arm, let alone a boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me..


	3. Cat and mouse

**Simon**

Turns out Agatha went home on Sunday evening. She'd left right after Penny and she had got home from the pub. She'd been tipsy and a bit humiliated, but had made a joke of it apparently. "Honestly Penny, if I turn up with some emo musician, my parents would probably lock me in a tower. Or at least take my horse away. And anyway, I don't really want to spend all my evenings in dingy pubs..."

Typical Agatha, she'll brush it off and move onto the next thing, hoping to finally find something that finally sticks.

"So what are you going to say to him when you see him today?" I say. "Are you going to find out what he was playing at? I mean, why make Agatha think he liked her and then go all distant like that?"

Penny's brilliant, she'll drill him until she gets to the bottom of this.

"I'm not going to say anything, Simon. I don't see why I should have anything more to do with him."

"What! Why not? That's you Penny, you like to demand explanations, it's what you do. I mean, he's in your class, you have to see him twice a week."

She rolls her eyes. "I managed quite well not talking to him for the first part of the term, I'm sure I can last a few more weeks up to Christmas. The course changes again next term."

"Yeah, but don't you want to know what it all meant? Why would he beg you to come to his gig and then be such an arse to your friends?"

"I don't know Simon. I don't know what goes on in the mind of Baz Pitch, but I'm not going to waste my energy trying to find out. I don't need any more friends and I certainly don't need to be worrying about two lost boys instead of just one."

Penelope can be very judgemental.

"I don't mean to be a bother to you..." I mumble.

"Oh Simon, you know I don't mean it like that." She hugs me briefly, "but I don't see why you're so bothered. Just let it drop, he's nothing to us, don't spend another minute thinking about it."

"But.."

"Alright?" Her voice is stern.

"Fine."

But I can't let it go.

For the next week or so, I am really paranoid about bumping into him. I think I see him everywhere I go. Whenever I see someone dressed in black, with dark hair, my cheeks immediately get hot and prickly, a mixture of shame and indignation. I pull Penny into doorways or behind hedges all over campus, trying to avoid the imaginary 'Baz', much to her annoyance. ("Simon, you're being ridiculous.")

But after a couple of weeks, I find I'm actively looking for him - in the library, in the Student Union bar, in empty lecture theatres and music rooms. I think I'm being discrete, but nothing gets past Penny.

"What _is_ your obsession with him?" Penny says when I ask causally (for the tenth time) how he seemed in Lit class. "Seriously, Simon, this is getting weird."

"It's nothing," I say. "I just don't trust him. I don't want him to be mean to you."

She folds her arms. "I can take care of myself. I've told you, we're not speaking and that's fine. You're always asking about him, who he talked to, what he said. Honestly, if you want to talk to him, you've only got to wait outside the poetry seminar, he's always first out of the door. I don't know why he still bothers coming. He never says anything, just sits there with a sneer on his face, like he did at the start of the year."

"I don't want to talk to him," I lie. (Half lie - what would I say to him? Hi, you probably don't remember me, but we shook hands once and I think about you all the time. And I hate you.)

"Then stop talking _about_ him. In fact, I forbid you to talk about him anymore, unless you're prepared to go and have it out with him yourself. Whatever 'it' is," she says exasperatedly, glaring at me.

"Fine." I say.

But I don't mean it. I can't get him out of my head. He's got to be bloody somewhere.

 

**Baz**

I feel like complete shit. Or like death warmed up. I can't get out of bed. Every bone in my body aches and my skin and throat are on fire. I call the doctor, who amazingly agrees to a home visit.

"You have acute tonsillitis. Nothing that a course of antibiotics won't cure," she says, handing me a prescription. "Get plenty of rest, drink lots of fluids and if the pain is really bad, you can have ibuprofen or paracetamol."

"Thank you for coming," I say.

"Are you sure there is no-one who can come and look after you for a couple of days?"

"I'll call my Aunt Fiona, don't worry," I assure her as she leaves.

But really there's no-one , so I haul myself to the chemist over the road, pick up my prescription, stock up on Lemsip and crawl back to my flat to die in peace. I wake up several hours later to Niall licking my face. His breath smells of fish and I feel like there's an elephant standing on my chest, but I stagger over to the cupboard and empty a sachet into his bowl, trying not to gag. I remember to take my next antibiotics and then collapse back into bed.

This continues for a couple of days, Niall waking me, demanding food, me feeding him, taking my medication and sleeping. Each time it gets a little easier, although I'm feeling pretty weak from lack of food. On day three I find a tin of Heinz tomato soup and manage to heat it up and drink it from a mug.

In the days when I feel better, but not well enough to face the world yet, I throw myself into my music. I like playing and I’m good at it. It also distracts me from thinking too much about things I don’t want to think about. Fiona has had a baby grand piano installed in the front room. Fuck knows how they got it in here. It would have had to be craned over the balcony and then through the huge floor to ceiling sash windows. It's in perfect keeping with the beautiful bow-fronted Georgian terrace, but it's an incredibly ostentatious object to find in a student flat. When I'd tried to thank her, she just laughed (Pfft. It's family money, Basilton, what else have I got to spend it on?) I alternate between piano and violin practice for university and guitar for me. One thing about having few friends at school, I always had plenty of time for music and the little practice rooms in the music block were my sanctuary. I'm not sure why my father spent so much money on music lessons and instruments if he didn't want me to take it further after school. I thought he would be pleased. But of course he wasn't.

"You'll go to Oxford and join the families in the business," he said.

"I don't want to be a wine merchant though, Father. I can't stand the stuff..." I say, but he shuts me down.

"It's your duty, Basilton, as the eldest son. The Grimm family is one of the oldest wine merchants in Europe - we can trace our heritage back to the Prussian Empire. We can’t have upstarts like Mage’s Wines driving our family out of business."

"But.."

"Music and poetry are just hobbies. No Grimm-Pitch is going to university somewhere like Brighton to study something so... wishy-washy."

"Father, I..."

"You'll go to Oxford and join the families in the business," he repeated, like if he said it enough times it would just happen.

Thank god for Fiona.

Being ill this week has made me realise how lonely and vulnerable I am living alone. I've always been so proud of how self-sufficient I am, but being this ill actually scared me. What if it had been something more serious than a bout of tonsillitis?

Whilst I was in bed, I kept thinking about Simon. I've worked part time in the university library since the start of my first year and I'd noticed the mismatched couple almost immediately. Her: small, slightly chubby with light brown skin and masses of purple hair and those glasses, Christ those glasses! Him: tall, slim but athletic and broad-shouldered, with pale golden skin, a head full of bronze curls and those blue eyes. They were often in the library when I was putting books back on the shelves (my monochrome rendering me invisible in their technicolour world), whispering animatedly about something or other.

I'd see them almost bouncing around campus, teasing each other, arguing, laughing. They didn't seem to need anyone but each other. I did find out he was on the football team and thought about going to watch, but I always seemed to be working when the matches were on and it felt a bit creepy to go to watch the practice session.

I never caught their names though, and I wasn’t high ranking enough in library worker status to do the checking out, only the re-stacking, so I couldn’t sneak a look at their library cards. They usually took their books with them to study elsewhere, but in the summer term, around assignment time he stayed to work in the silent area night after night. He sat there with his books spread out on the desk, lips moving silently as he read, a slight frown on his face. His curls kept falling forward and he would keep shoving them back. Then he would sit staring at nothing, chewing the end of his pencil (lucky pencil) before furiously scribbling something for a few minutes. Then he'd go back to the books and repeat the process all over again. He seemed to make torturously slow progress and made me feel guilty for my ability to skim read my notes and whip up a decent essay on the Sunday night before the Monday morning deadline.

I desperately wanted to talk to him, but despite all my schooling, I didn't know how to start a conversation with him. What was I going to say, "Oh, I see you’re studying…"? Yeah, like the rest of the fucking university. Great opener. When he went for a break, I had a look at his notes. His handwriting was appalling, like an animal had written it, but I could see from the books he was studying something on ecology. One time, I left him a cup of tea, and on another, a mint Aero. I don't even know if he got them. One thing I didn't ever leave him though, was one of the hair bands I use to tie my hair back when I'm working. I liked watching him running his hands through the mess of curls.

Can you really be in love with someone you've never spoken to?

I carried on working in the library all summer, but they didn’t come in. Not that I expected to see them there. I finally got lucky when I was dropping a demo tape at the pub at the end of the pier. Penny was selling those hot donuts in a little booth. I hate donuts, but I bought some anyway so I could cop a look at her name badge. With a bit of a bribe to Mrs. Cook-Pritchard, in admin, I'd managed to find out what courses she was going to be taking up in our second year. I couldn't believe my luck when I realised she was majoring in Politics and English and had chosen a class on contemporary poetry, which was an optional module in my Music course. Finally, after a year of procrastinating, I was making a positive move.

Obviously, when the course started and I realised how bloody sharp and confident she was, I got cold feet and spent the first few weeks trying to work out what the hell to say to impress her. I could have kissed Professor Possibelf when she made us work together on an assignment (if she hadn't been a woman, and about fifty years old...).

Amazingly we got on like a house on fire. And I was finally going to meet Simon.

And then I blew it.

In true Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch style.

So when I get better, I am going to swallow my pride and see if I can make amends with Penny. And then I have to apologise to Simon Snow.

Fuck.

 

**Simon**

His website is a simple one page thing with just the same picture as the flyer, with a list of gigs and venues. But it does have links to his Instagram account (dark_as_pitch). I click on the link and scroll through his photos. I'm not sure what I am expecting to find, pictures of him posing with his guitar, surrounded by beautiful girls I suppose, but apparently there are none of him at all.

It's largely a collection of stunning photos from all around Brighton: dramatic seascapes and fiery sunsets with murmurations of starlings over the West Pier, colourful images of street art and the Pride festival, sleeping cats, and then delicate compositions of grasses or spiders' webs covered in frost against bright blue skies. I find myself drawn in looking at one picture after another. He's got a real talent for contrasting light and shadow and capturing people with or without their knowledge. Of course his photography would be amazing. Just like everything else he does. He’s talented, graceful, eloquent.

He’s fucking perfect. Of course he is.

It's weird seeing the world through the eyes of someone so artistic, almost like learning to speak a new language. The person who took these photos has soul and talent, it's the guy with the beautiful voice and the delicate fingers. And I can’t believe that it can be the same person as the arrogant prick I met at half time. I like about ten photos from about six months ago before I realise what I've done. I panic and delete the likes. I don't want him to get the wrong idea. I mean, I was just checking that he hadn't posted anything mean about Penny or Agatha.

I go back to my physical searching. Penny says he hasn't been to the poetry class since we spoke about it. (Typical). Having covered the whole campus and not found out where he's hiding, I start walking the sea front. From the Marina and the naturist beach in Kemptown, past the Palace Pier and the arches, past the skeletal remains of the old West Pier to the Angel of Peace and Hove Lawns trying to catch a glimpse of black hair and brooding grey eyes. Once or twice I think I catch sight of him, slipping into a second-hand record shop or a cafe, but on further inspection, it's not him and I'm angry at myself for mistaking their normality for his almost unearthly perfection.

I don't even question my determination; not once stopping to think about why I'm trying to find him, or what I would do if I did catch up with him.

 

**Baz**

I know he's been looking for me, Penny told me.

After a week of frosty seminars, I already knew I couldn't take it. I missed having someone to argue with and bounce ideas off. I missed her. It's hard for me to admit that. I know fuck all about how to keep friends. I managed with casual acquaintances all through school. But I'm fed up with being isolated.

After my mother was murdered, my father couldn't stand the sight of me, I reminded him too much of her - same grey eyes. "Stop looking at me with Natasha's eyes," he'd say, like it was my fault. I was five year's old for Christ's sake.

Eventually, they'd packed me off to boarding school. I'd cried myself to sleep for two years. I was sad and alone; I’d lost my mother and been rejected by my father. Eventually, I decided I didn't want to hurt any more. So every holiday I studied my father, trying to mimic his body language and mannerisms, his air of cold superiority. I spent the next ten years pretending to be bored with everyone and everything. Tennis and cricket in summer, and rugby in winter, riding lessons, music lessons, elocution lessons, debating. None of which my father actually took time off from work to watch of course; he never came to a single match or concert. I’m not sure why I bothered, other than making sure I excelled in everything kept me so busy that I didn’t have to worry about not having close friends. And, obviously, it enabled me to look down on my peers from my self-constructed ivory tower.

Penny had been the first person who'd shown any real interest in finding out about me and my life. And the first person I’d wanted to share it with.

"Your mother was Justice Natasha Grimm-Pitch?" She asked, eyes widening.

We were drinking tea in the library basement cafe after working on our assignment together.

"You sound impressed, Bunce," I said, secretly thrilled that she’d heard of her.

"I am," Penelope said. "Your mother was a hero. She was the youngest female high court judge in British history. And when she was a barrister, she was prosecutor in the Mac versus Petty case. It was a landmark case in the progression of gay rights."

"I was too young to really know what she did," I said. "Although I’ve found out more since."

"She was brilliant," Penny said. "I've read the court transcripts. But someone killed her, didn't they - paparazzi wasn't it?"

"Fucking bloodsuckers - always looking for their next fix. We were with her cousin in a taxi and they thought she was having an affair. They chased after us, baying for blood. The car lost control and flipped. I was the only survivor."

"That’s terrible," she said, putting her hand on my arm and giving it a gentle squeeze.

I felt like I was really making progress. My counsellor was so proud of me (my own one, in Brighton, not the one my father sent me to). It was her that suggested I invite her to my gig. But that didn’t exactly go to plan.

Then I got ill. Now it's been three weeks since the incident at the Black Dove and I'm desperately hoping it's not too late to build bridges. I've brought tea in re-useable cups and freshly baked cinnamon buns. (My favourite, I hope they pass muster with Penny.)

When I get to class, I walk straight up to her and hold out one of the cups before I lose my nerve.

She folds her arms and glares at me. "What's this, Baz, some kind of joke?"

I'm glad Penny wears glasses; her eye contact is so fierce, it's good to have a barrier.

"Peace offering," I say, sitting down next to her. "Truce."

"Truce?"

"Yeah, truce - I don't want to be enemies Penny."

"You have to have feelings for someone to care enough to be enemies," she says. "And I wasn't aware you had any."

Ouch.

"I'm sorry, Penny," I say, still embarrassingly holding out the cup, "and I should have made more of an effort to say so sooner. I’ve… I’ve really missed you." (I can’t believe I admitted that, I’m getting soft).

She sighs and unfolds her arms, taking the cup and when I hold out the paper bag she takes a cinnamon bun.

"You're looking thin, where have you been?" She says.

I want to tell her it’s none of her business, but I’m trying to be a better man.

"Um. I was ill. And I couldn't get out of the flat to get food," I say, feeling uncomfortable revealing a weakness. I smooth my jeans and look away.

"You need to look after yourself better."

"I know," I say, looking down at my hands. "I really am sorry, you know."

Two apologies in under a minute. Father would have a fucking coronary.

"So I should bloody well hope, you numpty," she says, but her face is soft, not at all what I'd expected. She usually saves that look for Snow.

Not that I've been watching or anything (much).

"So we're okay?" I ask, embarrassed by the weakness in my voice.

"Well, it will cost you a lot more than..." She holds the cup up. It's a rainbow Starbucks one I brought during Brighton Pride last summer. "...what is this exactly, Baz?"

"Tea," I say a little defensively. "Earl Grey. It's all I have at home."

I'm not sure if she was actually referring to the bergamot-infused beverage or the cup it’s in.

"Of course," she says, and I think she's going to say something else, but she just sips her tea instead, wrinkling her nose slightly. Penny prefers normal tea. Noted.

"So..." I say, wondering how to bring up the other week, without breaking the thin veil of friendship that was just reforming. But I have to know if there's any chance Simon will ever speak to me again.

Penny looks at me; she sees right through me.

"Yes, come on then, what was that all about, at the gig?" she says. "Why did you act like such a total tosser?"

I raise my chin and narrow my eyes. I'm not sure I'm ready for this after all.

"Can it wait ‘til we're somewhere more private?"

"There's no one else here," she says, rolling her eyes.

It's true - Penny's always early; I'd been counting on it.

"Fine. It's going to sound a bit odd," I say, taking a deep breath. "But do you know the song, 'Gorgeous' by Taylor Swift?"

"Um, generally, but not specifically," she says, a puzzled look on her face. "Is it relevant?"

I get the lyrics up on my phone and hand it to her. I can't believe I'm using a cheesy pop song to explain my feelings, when between us we probably have a combined IQ pushing three hundred. But at this moment, Swift is the genius.

"Sound familiar, or do I have to spell it out?" I sneer out of habitual self-defence.

She reads the opening lines. "But you weren't rude to Agatha," she says, confused.

I look at her and arch an eyebrow. "Keep reading," I say, "and don't change the lyrics at all."

Her eyes get wider as she reads through the remainder of the song, recognition dawning on her face. "Oh," she breathes, "Ocean blue eyes... this is... about Simon?"

I nod, blushing all the way to my widow's peak.

"Baz... are you gay?" She looks surprised, rather than shocked.

"Completely," I say and start laughing, the relief of having told someone outside of the family making me feel momentarily drunk.

"And when exactly were you going to tell me this?" She laughs with me, recovering her usual Penny forthrightness admirably.

"Well, it's not exactly the first thing I tell people about myself. It's not what defines me, it’s just one part of who I am."

"So all that with Agatha the other night?"

"Well, as you've probably noticed, I'm not particularly great with new people. It was a kind of diversion tactic."

She thinks this over.

"You really hurt him you know?" She says, suddenly serious again.

What did she say earlier, about only being enemies if there are feelings involved? Despite feeling terrible for hurting him, a glimmer of hope rears its head. You can only hurt someone if they care enough to be hurt, right?

"It was just banter, Penny." I say and immediately regret it.

Notwithstanding today, when have I ever used the word banter before?

"No. No it wasn't. It was cruel Baz. What gave you the right to be like that with him? You know nothing about Simon, nothing about what he's been through and yet he still greets the world with an open heart. Fuck's sake Baz, he did nothing to deserve the way you treated him."

She’s right. I know nothing about him. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to consider anyone might have had an equally shitty childhood as me. Or worse. Like she said, I know nothing. But I want to.

"I know it's not an excuse, but I just panicked, alright? I shook his hand and it was like I'd been hit by lightning. Then I found out he was Agatha's ex and my world crumbled. If he could get girls as beautiful as Agatha to go out with him, why would he want me? Aside from the fact that I'm a boy, I'm dark and messed up and he and Agatha are golden."

"Well, the only person who can tell you how Simon feels is Simon himself. I can't speak for him."

"Yeah, but he's hardly going to want to talk to me now, after the way I behaved. I don't deserve it. And anyway, he likes girls, doesn't he?"

"If you'd asked me a month ago, yes, I'd have said he was straight. But the way he's been acting recently has got me questioning that - even if he's in complete denial."

"What do you mean?"

Penny sighs. "I feel treacherous telling you this, but I'm fed up with it. He's been obsessing over you. Asking about you all the time, have I seen you, what did you say, how did you look? It's just like he was after he saw Agatha for the first time."

So there's hope. Maybe.

"I just need a chance to apologise. If he doesn't feel the same, so be it. I just can't stand the thought that he's out there and thinking ill of me."

"I like you Basilton, and I defended you. I said you were Mr Darcy, not Lady Catherine de Bourgh, although at this point you sound more like Elizabeth," she grins. "But you'd better not fuck up again, because that beautiful boy deserves better than that."

I look at her. She defended me? She thinks I'm Mr Darcy?

"Ok, so what am I going to do about it?"

Penny likes a challenge. And she plans and strategises like no one else I know.

It's good to be back on the same side of things again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update soon. I'm trying to get it finished before school starts again. Thank you Rainbow Rowell for some of the dialogue.


	4. The Watford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny txt in italics

**Simon**

I'm on my way back from Christmas shopping in town on the Sunday after the end of term. I'll be spending most of the Christmas break here alone. Penny's heading home in a few days’ time. She's said I'm welcome to spend Christmas itself with her family, but I can't stay long. After about forty eight hours, her mum starts giving Penny pained looks every time I move, like I'm some over-sized stray dog she's brought home, liable to send things flying with its tail. It's not my fault their house is so crowded at that time of year. Penny has a lot of siblings.

Actually, I don't mind being on my own in our small rented terrace in Hanover. It's really cosy with an open fire and we bought a little Christmas tree and some decorations. There's quite a community in this part of Brighton, and I can always find someone to chat to in The Watford, so I won't be lacking company should I want it. Speaking of which, Penny asked me to meet her there at three o'clock. It's only half past two now, but as I walk past the door, I think about fresh sour cherry scones and decide to go straight there, rather than going home first. Penny can join me when I've eaten a couple in peace. I have an amazing capacity for baked goods and can't cope with another lecture today. ("You might have a six pack now, Simon, because you're playing so much football, but eating habits stay with you, you know and all that butter can't really be good for you...") Yeah, yeah.

Inside the bar, it's warm and fuggy compared to the crisp December air, and smells of beer and freshly-baked scones. Happy days. My scones arrive, piping hot and I settle down in mine and Penny's usual corner to enjoy my little treat. Christmas music is playing in the background and the general hubbub of people chatting makes me feel quite festive. I've even strayed off-piste and ordered a winter spiced scone (as a side order to the cherry ones).

At some point around three, somebody starts playing instrumental versions of Christmas songs on the piano in the other part of the bar. It's surprisingly classy for the Watford, more like something you'd expect in a hotel lobby. I check my phone, it's ten past three. Penny's late. It's unlike her, but I guess with how busy it is in town the bus could be taking its time. I message her and immediately get a reply saying

_(15.10) Just walking up Southover Street; I'll be there in a couple of minutes. Get the drinks in. Penny._

Like it could be anyone else. Full sentences and perfect grammar. I mean who uses those dot and comma things anyway? If the aliens ever abducted her and I had to prove it, I'd just get her to send a text message.

Penny bustles in a couple of minutes later, sliding into the seat opposite me, shoving several large bags under the table and unwinding her huge scarf. She's full of excuses and is talking so quickly I can hardly work out what she's saying. She seems over bright, like she is when she's nervous. Like she is when she's lying to her parents about something (usually covering for some trouble I've managed to drag her into). I pull her bobble hat off, and her hair springs up wildly. She pulls it back into a messy (bright red for Christmas) bun and takes off her glasses which have misted up with the change in temperature. Her face looks strange without them, and I'm just about to tease her about it when whoever is playing the piano starts to sing.

I say 'whoever', but the immediate punch to the gut leaves me in no doubt as to who it it is. Penny slowly replaces her glasses and looks at me over her pint. She looks guilty, like she has a terrible secret.

"Penny, what have you done?" I say, staggering to my feet.

I've got to get out of here.

"Simon, just stop for a minute will you?" She says, putting her hand on my arm.

I snatch it away, glaring at her. How could she? I know this is her doing, it's got Penelope Bunce written all over it. She starts to say something else, but my head is buzzing and I'm already walking out the door. The temperature has dropped several degrees whilst I've been in the pub. I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to calm down. I take huge gulps of the frigid air, my breath billowing around me like a dragon.

Scarcely a minute later, I can feel, rather than see Penny hovering close by.

"Simon," she says, tentatively. "Are you okay?"

I'm still bending over with my hands on my knees, focusing on my breathing. I turn my head to glare at her.

"All I wanted was to have a scone and a pint in peace. Now it's all gone to shit."

"I'm sorry, alright? I didn't think you'd react that strongly."

"So you don't deny it was you?"

I straighten slowly, hurt replacing my anger, no longer in danger of going off. "How long exactly have you and he been plotting this cosy little scenario?"

"Simon, listen to me."

"Why should I Penny?" I say, sticking my chin out. "I didn't even think you were talking to each other. How much of what you've told me over the past few weeks has even been true?"

"I haven't lied to you once."

"You clearly have, otherwise how could you have arranged all this?"

"Simon, please. It's me, Penny. When have I ever done anything to hurt you? I've spent the last month watching you drive yourself insane. It's gone on too long and it's got to stop. One way or another you've got to draw a line under this. I'm doing this because I care."

I scratch the hair at the back of my neck, confused. She's right, of course. She always bloody is. Penny's never let me down in the past, and the last few weeks have been such shit. The fight goes out of me and my shoulders slump. I must look miserable, because Penny risks putting her arm round my waist (she can't reach my shoulders easily).

"Come on, let's go back inside, finish our drinks and listen to the music. Then if you want to leave without talking to Baz, I'll support your choice. But after all these weeks of looking for him and obsessing over him, I think you should at least see him in the flesh again and try to sort out what's going on."

Why should I open myself up to more abuse from that arrogant prick? Do I really want to see him again? But then I think about his beautiful photos and his soulful singing and apparently I do.

"I'll buy you a scone... if you've still got room after the plateful you've already had."

"Fuck off," I say.

Which always means I've lost an argument. I give her a half-hearted smile and follow her back into the Watford.

 

**Baz**

I get to the Watford at just after two and chat to the landlord for a while over a pint, keeping an eye on the window. At about two thirty, Simon passes on his way home. My pulse quickens slightly and I mentally give myself a half-hour warning. But then he turns round and kind of hovers outside for a moment, he seems to be having a conversation with himself. He pushes, then pulls the door and strides into the bar like a man on a mission. I grab my pint and duck into the back room, before he sees me. Fuck. Penny said he wouldn't be here until three and that's if he was on time. I sit on the piano stool and consider my options.

1\. I could go and talk to him, but he's likely to leave, or punch me, as soon as he sees me. 2. I could just start my set early, but I don't want him to know I'm here (see above for possible reactions). 3. I could just hide round the back here and drink my pint.

I think I need Penny here for support before I attempt to make contact. I sit on the bar stool and drink my pint.

Penny said I was Mr Darcy.

"But you've got to act like Mr Darcy when Elizabeth goes to Pemberley, not how he is when he first meets her," she said. "If you act like a tosser again, there won't be any more chances."

"Fine. I'll try." It came out haughtier than I intended.

Penelope looked unconvinced. She stared at me sternly, her arms folded. "Basilton..."

"Look, I promise, okay?"

"Life hasn't exactly kept its promises to Simon, you know. Please don't let me... no, please don't let him down."

"I don't intend to fuck up again, really. Believe me, it's not in anyone's best interests," I sneer.

Although I meant it when I said it, I'm not sure how I will achieve it. I've never actually managed to be nice to anyone I've wanted to kiss before. Then again, I've never really wanted to kiss anyone except Simon. Not really. I went to various clubs at the end of my first year, determined to get Snow out of my system. I stood at the bar, watching a room full of people dancing, some of them almost my type. But none of them was Snow, and anytime anyone so much as looked my way I frightened them off with a sneer and went back to drowning my sorrows at the bar with shot after shot, before stumbling home alone. Again.

At three o'clock, I risk a look round into the other bar. Simon has his back to the door and is looking at his phone. There's no sign of Penny, so I decide to compromise. I start my set, but keep it to instrumental versions of Christmas favourites. I can just about see the door from my position, so when Penny finally arrives, I take a deep breath and start to sing.

I thought carefully about what I should play tonight. I spent hours flicking between Spotify and genius lyrics trying to find a song that would say sorry, but that wasn't either over played or over cheesy. Nothing was just right, so I scrapped that idea. Simon Snow doesn't strike me as the type to listen too carefully to lyrics anyway.

Tonight is primarily about building bridges. If I can just apologise to him, have a civil conversation for a few minutes, I can leave happy. So when Simon storms out of the bar after one verse of 'Let it Snow', followed by Penny, my heart sinks.

Deja vu, Pitch.

Did he think I was mocking him? I carry on with my best Michael Bublé set, trying to avoid any mention of snow - the punters at the Watford don't seem to object. I'm half way through 'Cold December Night' when Penny comes back into the pub, with a sulky looking Simon trailing behind like a stupid dog. It's almost laughable. But actually, I'm just relieved. I put my head down and keep singing. I play a couple more from the Bublé catalogue, before the saccharin starts to get on my nerves. I cleanse my pallet with Coldplay's 'Christmas Lights'. I recorded the violin and guitar parts at the flat earlier and now I layer them with the Piano in the pub, hoping the tuning isn't too out. It's the first time I've tried using any kind of backing track and I'm not sure whether it will work. At the end of the song, I am secretly thrilled when I get an enthusiastic round of applause rather than the polite cricket clap I'd been getting after the other songs. I look up and realise that quite a crowd has gathered.

The landlord comes over and hands me a fresh pint. "I wasn't sure what to expect when Penny said she had a mate who could play at short notice, but that was magic. Crackin' stuff."

"Thanks, Dave," I say. "I'm booked at The Grand on Christmas Eve, so it's great to get a chance to run through the set beforehand. I appreciate you giving me a go."

"Do you do requests?" he asks hopefully.

"Depends. What did you have in mind?"

"Any chance of Fairy Tale of New York? It's me wife Lu's favourite."

"It's a duet, Dave," I laugh suddenly feeling uncharacteristically festive. "But I'll give it a go."

I needn't have worried. As soon as I play the opening bars, someone in the crowd lets out a whoop and then people start joining in, so no one can hear my terrible Kirsty MacColl impression. It's another song I could record the violin part for, but I'm not sure if the clientele at The Grand would appreciate it. Although you never know.

The requests start pouring in and I do my best, muddling through with some rather clonky piano playing. Father would be delighted that years of classical training had led me to banging out Slade to a load of strangers in a small pub nestled in an area of cheap terraced housing in Brighton. Happy fucking Christmas Father.

Just when I think my voice is about to give out on me, Dave comes over and rescues me. He turns to the crowd and say, "That's all for now lads, let’s give this poor fella a break. He's playing The Grand on Christmas Eve, so we don't want to ruin him tonight. I'm sure we're all grateful that he's graced us with his presence this evening, before he gets too good for the likes of us."

He winks at me and does a mock bow, then claps loudly. There are a few good-natured groans and calls for "just one more," but he's firm and switches the music back on behind the bar. People return to their friends and their pints. I'm suddenly nervous and take my time packing up my music and equipment. It's time to see if Penny and Simon stayed the distance. When I glance round the corner, they are still there. Simon's still sitting with his back to the bar and is busy with his phone. Again. Penny looks over and smiles. I mime knocking back a drink, raising an eyebrow in question. She nods encouragingly, so I get three pints of cider and manoeuvre my way across the busy pub. Simon is talking to Penny as I arrive, looking between his phone and her, talking about Agatha in a confused tone.

I put the drinks down on the table, making him jump.

He looks up at me with cold blue eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter - sorry. Thank you for staying with me.


	5. One all

**Simon**

The hour and a half whilst Baz is singing is a very confusing time for me. I feel the pull in my stomach the whole time. After the initial wrench, it lessens to a deep thrum, but it's impossible to ignore entirely. At the same time, I feel twitchy and nervous. My leg keeps jogging the table, much to Penny's frustration. I keep wanting to get up and leave. I get up a couple of times and stand there not sure what to do. Each time, Penny pulls me back down to our little booth. "It's okay, Simon."

When he sings the Coldplay one, his voice sounds so perfectly sad that I just want to rush over and hug him, it's so beautiful. Then everyone in the whole pub is singing and feels like Christmas is here. The atmosphere is just so infectiously happy. I look at Penny. She's just staring right back at me, trying to work out if I'm okay. I give her a sheepish grin. She reaches over and squeezes my hand.

"He's good isn't he?"

"I s'pose," I huff, grudgingly.

I can't fight it any more. He's bloody good, and so fucking cool, even singing tacky Christmas songs. He's making the whole pub fall in love with him. No exceptions. The bastard.

Then it's over and the barman puts on "Now Christmas" or something similar on the sound system. Penny nips to the loo and my phone buzzes several times. It's Agatha. I read the message and get more confused with each new message. Penny slides back into the booth and looks at me.

"You okay?"

I wish she'd stop asking me that. I'm fine. And not fine.

"I'm fine. It's just I had these weird messages from Agatha. I read them to her:

 _(16.30) Hi Simon, I'm trying to get hold of Penny, but she's not answering her phone. Are you with her_?

Then

_(16.31) It's just I'm passing by her house in London and wondered if I could borrow her skis?_

Followed by

_(16.32) Actually, don't worry. I've just remembered I've got a pair at home. Happy Christmas, Agatha._

"Do you think she's ok? I mean do you even have skis? I really think she might be losing it."

Penny dives under the table. I'm sure she's blushing. After rummaging around in her bag, she comes up with her phone in hand.

"Must've slipped to the bottom of my bag after I messaged you earlier."

But I'm sure she had it with her when she went to the loo just now. Surely she can't be plotting with Agatha. I mean, this is Agatha we're talking about. She doesn't do plotting.

"What's going on? Have you dragged the poor girl into one of your convaluted plans? Why are you trying to keep me distracted?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Why should I know why Agatha does anything? I haven't spoken to her for days."

I try to grab her phone to check what she's been up to, but she pulls away and looks at someone behind me.

Three pints encircled by long, graceful fingers are carefully placed on our table. I spin round in my seat, even though I know who it is, of course. I'm expecting to see the sneer from last time. I'm surprised to see a pair of slightly hooded, deep grey eyes, and a (slightly) humble-looking Baz, wiping his hands down the front of his jeans.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I can't help but say.

Penny kicks me under the table.

He looks taken aback.

Good.

Let him suffer.

Anger is bubbling under my skin. What a stupid fucking question. He's here because he was just playing a gig. And he's here, at our table here, with drinks. What is it about the guy, he's not even said anything and I'm responding like he's been tormenting me for weeks. Well, actually he has.

"If you've come here to mock me again, you can just piss off. I'm not in the mood."

"Shut up, Snow," he says. He swallows and it's obvious how nervous he is.

I don't care.

"My name is Simon," I say through gritted teeth.

He looks at Penny with a kind of 'What do I do next?' look.

She gives him the 'go on then' wide eyes and little nod.

"I.. I want to apologise," he all but stammers.

Not so eloquent now are you, you smug bastard? I stare him out.

"For my behaviour last time we met. It was inexcusable. I..."

"Yes. Yes it was," I say.

And then I get up and leave.

For the second time tonight.

But this time Penny doesn't follow me.

I stomp home, slump on the sofa and switch on the TV.

I showed him. Stuck up prick.

But if that’s true, why do I feel so shit?

 

**Baz**

I want to rush after him and plead with him to stay. To hear me out. But of course, I don't. Instead I sit down opposite Penny with as much pride as I have left, in a seat still warm from its previous occupant. Penny does not go running after Snow either. Interesting.

It's one all.

I pick up the cider and sip it, unable to meet Penny's eyes. I don't want to see the pity that's bound to be there. Currently I'm pretending I don't care. But I really do. Care, that is.

I'm not sure why it surprised me when he left. I mean, what did I expect? For him to look up at with me with his blue eyes and say, "Wow Baz, you rocked my world. Let's be boyfriends."?

"Baz?" Penny's voice cuts through my introspection.

I blink at her. "What?"

"I seem to be saying this a lot recently," she says shaking her head lightly, "but are you okay?"

"No," I say blandly. "I feel burnt out."

"Oh. Right." She sighs deeply. "Well, if it helps, I'm pretty sure that makes two of you."

I make a noise that comes out a bit like 'harrumph'.

She takes a long drink from her pint, then sighs loudly.

"What did you _think_ would happen, Baz?"

"I don't know. That I suppose. But it's not what I'd _hoped_ for."

"What exactly do you want? Do you even know?"

And I find it hard to say, honestly. But I try.

"That he'd stay. That he'd accept my apology. That we could all get on and hang out. Christ, I didn't think it was so complicated. I just don't want to pretend any more. That I don't care. That I don't need anyone."

I stare into my pint. I imagine my father getting up and walking out of the room, disgusted at my display of emotion. I have daddy issues. I know. I'm working on that with my counsellor too.

"I'll try talking to him again, but he really is so stubborn."

She gets up, and starts putting on her outdoor clothes, wrapping a ridiculously long red scarf round her neck and cramming one of those knitted hats that look like a cat face over her red hair. She looks crazier than ever.

"You've got my number and now you know where to find us. We're just down the next street, number seventy five - green door, purple window frames."

She gives me a hug, her frizzy hair tickling my nose. "Take care of yourself, won't you? And make sure you eat - you're still too thin."

"I'll be fine."

The she adds a pair of bright green mittens to the mix and scoops up all her bags. She must have half the town in there. "Christmas shopping," she shrugs when she sees me looking. "Got a big family."

Then she's gone.

I finish my pint and call a cab.

Then I drink the pint I bought for Simon.

I'm going to need to piss before I get in the cab.


	6. Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penny txt italics  
> Simon txt bold

**Simon**

I spend the rest of the week sprawled on the sofa, not thinking. I sleep, I watch football or play FIFA on the X-Box. I live off tea and cereal and generally drive Penny to the point of distraction. I refuse to talk about the 'Baz situation' as she calls it.

"There is no Baz situation," I shout eventually. (At least not one that I want to think about). "You've been telling me for weeks to stop talking about him, and now that I have, it's all _you_ want to talk about. I don't get you Penny."

"If you're so over it, why are you moping round the house?"

"I'm not moping. I'm relaxing. It's the holidays. It's what most sane people do."

"Clearly. But sane people still eat proper meals, have showers and talk to their housemates."

"I talk. We're talking now aren't we?"

She folds her arms and glares at me. I should be used to it by now. But today it feels extra... glary.

"What?"

"Look at yourself, Simon. You're a mess. If you're off your food, there's got to be something wrong with you. You've barely moved from the sofa, you've been wearing the same tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt for three days now, there's no milk left, and if I have to hear that bloody Gorillaz track one more time..."

"Fine. I'll go and buy some more milk."

I lean over to grab my wallet from the side then start putting on my trainers.

"That's not what I meant," she sighs. "Why do you hear that part of the conversation and not the rest?"

"Because that's the only part I can deal with at the moment Penny, okay? It's not like feeling bad because I've had an argument with you or Agatha. Or getting a crap grade for one of my essays. Or failing my driving test. If I actually let myself think about why I'm feeling so crap it's going to open up a whole new world of confusion." (I'd have to admit I have feelings for a boy) "I. Just. Don't. Want. To. Think. About. It. Right. Now."

I'm shaking and I don't want to see the look on Penny's face. I slam the front door. Hard. I'll go and get all the milk I can carry from the fucking Co-op.

When I get back, Penny has tidied away all the cereal bowls and half-drunk cups of tea that have been littering the immediate area around the sofa. I hate it when she does that, it makes me feel like a child. I shove the milk in the fridge and realise that there are all sorts of Tupperware boxes in there with labels on. I open the freezer and find more.

"It's your half of all the meals I cooked this week." Penny’s voice is flat. I turn round and she’s standing there with her huge suitcase. "I didn't want them to go to waste. You can eat them while I'm away."

She looks deflated and her eyes are red. Like she's been crying. Penny never looks like this. I can't stand it. I put my arms round her and she's shaking in my arms. We don't do this. Penny doesn't like scenes and I'm not good at hugging. She knows that, but neither of us cares right now. I pat her back. "Hey, what's wrong?" I say into her hair.

"I can't fix this Simon. I want to take your pain and confusion away, but I can't. Not if you won't let me in. No secrets, remember? I thought we had a pact."

"Oh."

I sigh and pull back, taking her cheeks in my hands.

"It's not that I'm not letting you in, it's just... I don't know what to say to you, because I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

She nods, sadly, wiping her eyes on the back of her cuff. "I should go. I'll miss my train."

"I'll walk you to the station," I say, reaching for her case.

"It's okay, it has wheels, I can manage."

Always so self-sufficient.

"I know, but I'd like to."

"I'd rather you didn't. You know I hate goodbyes."

I pick up her suitcase anyway, it weighs a tonne.

"What on earth have you got in here?"

"Just clothes, presents and stuff, and some light reading for the holidays." Typical. "Are you sure you're going to be okay staying here on your own? You know you're welcome to come to ours. I know Mum gets grumpy, but that's just Mum. She doesn't mean anything by it."

She smiles at me weakly, her eyes soft.

"I'd rather stay here. You've got the bag of Christmas stuff I gave you, haven't you?"

She taps the side of her case and then starts to get wrapped up against the cold. I go into the kitchen and I busy myself making a cup of tea. No goodbyes.

The front door opens and I look over my shoulder across the small through kitchen-living room. Penny's manhandling her suitcase out of the door. She turns at the last moment and says, "By the way, you owe me. You'll have to do all the cooking for at least a week when I get back."

 ******

It's lunchtime on Christmas Eve. I've only just got up as I did a shift at the Watford last night and didn't get in ‘til gone one o'clock. I love working there. I started doing the odd shift just after Penny and I moved into the area at the end of last summer. It's so easy to forget your troubles when you're rushed off your feet, and this time of year, people are in good moods and like buying you drinks. I get myself a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea and stand looking at the whiteboard in the kitchen - Penny's left me lists of instructions about bins and switching stuff off (or on), in tiny cramped handwriting. I swear she's addicted to the thing. One of the instructions says, "Eat proper meals." I look down guiltily at my cornflakes and promise her I'll do better at tea time.

I slump on the sofa and flick on the TV. The Snowman is just starting and I can't think of a better way of spending the next half hour. I get the fire going, crack open the Quality Street and sigh with contentment. I'm wearing my Christmas socks and jumper and I can eat all my favourites without having to worry about Penny nagging me not to eat them all at once. Ha! She'll be left with the coconut ones and the toffee pennies by the time she gets back. Although, who am I kidding? I'll have even eaten those by then. 

It’s so cosy that I must have dropped off. A rustling sound followed by a light thump wakes me as something is put through the letter box. Through the half-drawn curtains I’m sure I can make out someone standing by the window. The houses are right onto the street, with no front gardens, so it's not unusual to see people walking past. "It's like being in a blooming fish bowl," Penny's dad said when he helped us move in. I'm half asleep; there’s no reason for anyone to be peering into our grotty little living room and when I look again, there’s no one there. It was probably just Pizza delivery or double glazing leaflets, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I have to go and look.

There's a stiff white envelope on the doormat addressed to me in beautiful handwriting, it almost looks like calligraphy. Probably a Christmas card from one of the neighbours. I open it and find a very posh looking ticket for:

"Christmas Eve @ The Grand"

Dress code: Black tie or lounge suits.

Time: Six o'clock, carriages at midnight

Place: The Victoria Lounge

It might as well have been in Greek. What the hell is a lounge suit and what does carriages at midnight mean? I sounds like something out of bloody Cinderella. I turn it over and it has more details about champagne, canapés and live music from local school choirs, and rising local talents Basilton Grimm-Pitch and Candy Apple Blue.

Of fucking course it would be from him. Who else would have anything to do with something so posh? Well, Agatha, I suppose, but not here in Brighton.

Inside the envelope there's a note, in the same perfect handwriting (again, of course it would be). "Penny said you were home alone for Christmas. If you’re at a loose end, I'm playing at The Grand between seven thirty and nine thirty this evening. I enclose a ticket. There is an open bar and a buffet. I'd really like it if we could meet for a drink after I finish. If you want to let me know where to meet you, or to tell me to fuck off, my number is at the bottom. Baz." And then he'd drawn a pair of holly leaves with three berries.

What the fuck is that all about?

Why on earth would he think I'd want to spend Christmas Eve watching him play in some posh hotel on the seafront? Okay, so the free food and drink are quite appealing. And he does have a great voice. But why would he invite me? He hates me.

I think about calling Penny, but I don't want to disturb her Christmas Eve. Wait. That must have been Baz who delivered the envelope. I pull open the front door, but whoever it was is long gone.

I'm not going of course. There's always a good film on Christmas Eve. Home Alone or Harry Potter or something easy like that. I check the time; it's only quarter past two. I flick through the TV channels and then Netflix, but I can't settle on anything.

I look in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Penny's right, I do look a mess, I can't believe I went to work looking like this last night. I decide to have a shower and a shave, it always makes me feel better about things. Afterwards, I stand in front of my wardrobe trying to decide what to wear. (What’s actually clean?) I pull on a clean pair of trackie bottoms and t-shirt. I don't have a tux.

(14.46) **Penny what's a lounge suit?**

(14.47) _It just means a normal suit - why?_

 _(14.47)_ **Crossword puzzle thx :)**

(14.48)  _Simon_ , _don’t you dare mess up my Christmas crossword…_

I go back to the wardrobe. The only suit I own is the dark grey three piece I wore to Penny's brother's wedding over the summer. It was stiff and formal, although I quite liked it when I looked in the mirror. Plus Agatha said I looked like a broader-shouldered version of Troye Sivan. "Whoever the fuck that is," I huffed as she’d re-done my tie for me. Penny said I should take it as a compliment and they both giggled.

The suit is there, but my only shirt is AWOL. I finally find it shoved at the bottom of the wash basket under some bed sheets - god knows how long it's been there. I decide to put a wash on anyway. I manage to burst one of the stupid little washing pods. (Things tend to explode round me.) I wipe up most of the spilled liquid with the sheet and chuck another pod in for good measure, along with the shirt. Even though I’m not going out. Obviously.

(15.08) **can I wear a bow tie with a lounge suit?**

(15.08) _You can wear either.  Why don't you just wear the maroon one you wore to Premal's wedding?_

(15.09) **not going anywhere was just curious**

(15.09) _Oh. Right. Okay then._

I go into the kitchen and put one of the Tupperwares into the microwave. I eat the lasagne standing up, watching the very foamy washing go round and round. How long does the sodding thing take anyway?

The invitation on the mantelpiece is mocking me with its poshness. I should throw the stupid thing in the fire, but I want to show Penny when she gets back to see what she makes of it.

I flop on the sofa and flick through a copy of the Radio Times magazine. Penny bought it last week before she left. Apparently her family always gets it at Christmas. "It's traditional," she said when I asked her why she'd bought it. "When we were little, we liked looking through it and highlighting what films we wanted to watch. It kind of feels weird not to have it lying around next to the choccies and the mixed nuts. Anyway, I quite like the puzzles and crosswords now."

I find the crossword. I can do it while I wait for the washing machine to finish. After ten minutes of reading the cryptic clues over and over I've completed exactly none of them. Penny did try to explain how they work once, but I just couldn't see why anyone would care enough to remember all the rules. Plus my mind kept wandering off while she was talking. I look at the quick clues. I swear they're not much easier. I get a few of them and fill them in. Penny will flip her shit when she gets back. She likes the cryptic ones and, "Simon, you can't do a mixture of both. I’m serious, it's one or the other."

The washing machine sounds like it's in its final death throes, then it stops. I try to open the door, but it's locked. I kick it and try again. It's still locked.

(17.06) **Penny how do u open the washing machine?**

(17.07) _Hold on, I can do it remotely.  Try again now._

It opens - it's like she's bloody Dynamo.

(17.07) **How did u do that?**

(17.08) _It's got a minute timer, you numpty x_

Of course if fucking has. I can practically hear her laughing.

(17.08) **Fuck off**

(17.10) _Happy Christmas to you too Simon. So are you going to The Grand?_

(17.11) **No**

(17.12) **How do u no about that?**

(17.12) _A little bird may have told me…_

(17.13) **Well i'm not going, skyfall is on**

(17.13) _Okay then. Enjoy your evening with James Bond :)_

I hang the washing on the radiators and over doors then turn the heating up. I don't want to have it hanging around still on Christmas day.

It's quarter past five. I could do the washing up, or I could go to the Watford for a pint. I go to the Watford for a pint. I end up having three. Then I remember I have to go home. I left the fairy lights and heating on and Penny left specific instructions about turning things off.

I decide to iron my shirt, seeing as it is dry. I must be pissed, I never iron anything. I switch Skyfall on. Daniel Craig is looking pretty hot in his suit. I decide to put mine on, to see if it still fits. It does. I do a really cool roll across the bed and then, just because I can, I do my best James Bond gun hands at the full length mirror on the landing. I blame Dave - he bought me the third pint. He's a good bloke. At least I didn't burn my shirt.

(19.32) **Penny**

(19.33) **Penny**

(19.34) _What now, Simon?_

(19.34) **I didn burn my shirt and I turnd off the ion and the fairy lihts**

(19.35) _So are you sitting in the dark in an ironed shirt?_

(19.35) **No. I got my suit on. Im James Bond**

(19.35) _Simon are you pissed?_

(19.36) **n**

(19.36) **o just ben to the watfod & had a cuple of pints :)**

(19.37) _You're not going to turn up at The Grand in that state are you?_

(19.39) _Simon?_

The Grand. I leap down the stairs and look at the invitation. I'm not that drunk, I think I’d know. But I could do with some food to soak up the cider. Free posh food. Well I guess I _have_ got my suit on now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the Kudos and your lovely comments. It really makes my day when I see something in my in box! I promise the angst is nearly over...


	7. The Grand Hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning *Extreme Cheese* (Well it is Christmas)  
> Penny txt italic

**Baz**

There are a few hours before I have to be at The Grand, so I take a long walk along the sea front. It's quiet; most people are tucked up at home with their loved ones. I'm not going back to the house in Hampshire for Christmas. Obviously. My father still hasn't forgiven me for coming to Brighton, rather than going to Oxford. Hence having to work in the library and sing in pubs. Fiona's letting me live in the flat rent-free, but I've got to eat. I thought he might cut me some slack when I finished top of my class at the end of my first year, but he didn't give a shit. If I'm not with the families, I'm against them. Not sure how Fiona does it. I guess she's just a Pitch; she doesn't have to answer to the Grimm side.

When she found out I wasn’t coming home for Christmas, she FaceTimed me and threatened to join me at the flat. "We’ll go out and get sozzled," she said.

"I’m playing piano at The Grand Hotel on Christmas Eve, Fiona."

"The Grand eh? Can’t pass up a chance to see yourself in a suit, can you? Alright, I’ll get a ticket and come and cheer you on. We’ll make a night of it."

Please don’t.

"I think they’re all sold out, it’s a bit short notice."

I know. I’m going to hell for lying to my aunt.

"Well, you must get a guest list, or at least a plus one, surely?"

Oh Fiona, you genius.

"I suppose. They didn’t say…"

I must have looked really uncomfortable, because she said, "Basil, have you met a bloke?"

"Something like that," I said, my lip curling into a smile.

So she said she’d get pissed with some old friends. "Anything to avoid the starched Christmas at your father’s house. Well, if you’re at a loose end at New Year, give me a call."

Not a chance.

I'm not in a hurry, so I stop to take some photos. The low angle of the sun is making the light incredible. I'm so glad I didn't go to Oxford; even alone, Brighton feels more like home than Hampshire ever did. (Well, strictly speaking, Fiona's flat is in Hove, actually).

I sit on a weather-beaten groyne - the deckchairs are all packed away at this time of year. A seagull watches me from the storm berm, but I decide to ignore it. I close my eyes and let myself think about my mother. I try not to, as a rule. It's another thing I learnt to push down at boarding school. But it's Christmas. Almost.

"I miss you," I say to the ocean. "I hope you're not disappointed with the choices I've made. I know I'm not going to be able to change the world like you did. You fought for what you believed in and it seems like you never gave up. Ever. But I've tried, Mother and I can't think of anything else I can do to make Simon want me. But you don't need to worry. I'm not going to do anything stupid to myself. I'm going to carry on as I am; taking photos and writing music and poetry. Who knows, maybe they can at least change someone’s world?"

I exhale slowly and stand up, brushing some dried seaweed from my trousers.

The seagull is still looking at me with its evil red eye. I hate them, they're like flying rats. I kick a stone at it (I’d spit on it if I could get it that far) and the ugly thing flies off with a keening cry.

 

**Simon**

When I tell Penny about this later, I’m leaving out the part where I lost the invitation when a gust of wind blew it from my hand whilst I was standing opposite The Grand, debating whether to go in. The cold air and the long walk have completely sobered me up and now I’m not even hungry anymore, just nervous. But I’m here now, so I stop thinking and cross the road.

The doorman (there’s a doorman!) is so friendly and welcoming that I soon forget my nerves. He ushers me in out of the cold and tells me to go and talk to Gareth or Rhys at reception.

Walking into the lobby is like being transported to another time. It’s got these huge coloured marble columns with kind of patterned plaster at the top. The reception desk is in the centre of the space, where it widens slightly. Two guys in smart pinstripe uniforms are standing behind it, chatting and laughing with each other. Not the old-fashioned, formal atmosphere the surroundings would lead you to expect. At the far end of the lobby, a huge Christmas tree fills the space at the bottom of an ornate dark green cast iron staircase. The stairs seem to wind up in kind of rectangles, all the way up to a glass-roof at the top. I’m aware that I’m staring, but it’s not every day that I find myself somewhere like this.

"Pretty lush, isn’t it?" a voice says to my left, its soft Welsh lilt taking me slightly by surprise.

One of the receptionists (Gareth, according to his name badge) has come out from behind the check-in desk and is standing just next to me, following my gaze to the Christmas tree. It’s covered with little white lights and deep red and gold decorations. It must be at least six metres tall and about three metres wide. Mine and Penny’s little tree at home would be like a small branch of this one. A branch of a branch.

"It’s beautiful," I say, looking round, my mouth hanging open.

"Yeah, like something out of a movie, isn’t it? They’ve just spent a small fortune doing it all up."

I just keep staring. It’s embarrassing actually.

"Right, I’m not being funny, but you look a bit lost," he says after a moment or two.

"I… um… it’s just…"

"Gareth, you’re so blunt," the other guy says from behind the desk. "What he means is, can we help you, sir?"

"I’m only saying…" Gareth starts, but is interrupted by Rhys.

"Have you come for the party then?"

"I… um, yes, I mean. It’s just, well I lost my ticket. It blew away. So I guess I have no proof."

"Don’t be daft," Rhys says. "It doesn’t matter. What’s your name? We can look you up."

"Um, Simon… Snow. But I didn’t buy it myself, so it might not be under my name…"

They look at each other. I can’t quite work out what the look means. They look almost excited.

"You’re Simon Snow?" Rhys says.

"Er…yes?" I say, but it comes out as more of a question.

Gareth looks a bit flushed. "We were beginning to think you might not show up. Gutted, he’d have been too, I reckon. Right, so what it is is, when you get here we’re meant to direct you straight to the Victoria Lounge and get you whatever you want."

"What?"

"He was like, very insistent that you were given the best service possible."

"You’re not meant to tell him that, Gareth." Rhys rolls his eyes, dramatically. "It should be left ‘poetically unspoken’, remember?"

Yeah, he does the air quote too.

I’m so confused.

"Right, I mean, but I… can you show me where the toilets are first?"

I can’t quite get my head round this. What is Baz playing at?

"I’ll show you," Gareth says.

He keeps chatting and I’m sure I hear the words charming, lucky and date, but the blood is rushing in my ears and I just need to get away for a minute.

Is this a date? I decide not to think about that right now. I turn on the tap of the huge porcelain sink and splash handfuls of water onto my face and the back of my neck. It feels claustrophobic and hot in here compared to the bracing air of the open seafront. I take a few deep breaths then look up at my reflection in the mirror. Three pints and a long walk in the wind and cold have not done wonders for my cool James Bond look. Actually, I look quite mad. I tear my fingers through my hair, but end up making it worse. Where is Penny when I need her? I open the door. Gareth is just outside, leaning against the banisters.

"Need some help?" he grins.

"Please. Although I’m not quite sure what you’re going to be able to do."

"To be honest, you do look a bit of a mess, but I’ve seen worse."

I almost pull him into the gents’ toilets with me. I don’t stop to think how this could look to a passer-by. He wets my hair and tames it as best he can, then sorts out my tie. He does the posh knot that Agatha did for me for Premal’s wedding. He pulls at my suit a bit and then says, "Oh, I almost forgot. Wait here. I’ll be right back, alright? Don’t move."

"Right. Okay."

He’s back in less than a minute with a dark red rose that matches my tie. There’s a bit of green stuff and some little white flowers on it too. It’s nicer than the one I wore at the wedding. I didn’t know you could wear them at other times.

"He left you this," he says, pinning it to my lapel. "But don’t say I said, will you? There now. You look loads better. Come on, I’ll show you to the party. Rhys and I were saying whoever this Simon Snow is, he’s very lucky. Your Baz is gorgeous. A bit scary, mind, but gorgeous."

"He’s not my…" I start to say, but Gareth has already sped off and I have to walk quickly to catch him up.

 

**Baz**

What was I thinking of inviting Snow here? He’s going to feel so uncomfortable. I’ve never seen him in anything other than trackie bottoms and hoodies. Aside from the Christmas sweater he had on the other day, that is. He was sprawled on the sofa, asleep, his head a crush of curls on the cushion, the firelight playing on his tawny skin. He’d stirred and the jumper had ridden up slightly, and I’d watched the muscles shifting on his taut stomach. I blush at the memory. He’d turned to look up at the window, eyes still hooded with sleep, but I’d slipped away before he was fully aware that I was there.

I didn’t even know if he owned a suit.

(14.40) Does Simon have a suit?

(14.41)  _Oh, hey Baz.  Yes, he had one for my brother's wedding._

(14.41) Great - what colour is it?

_(14.42) Grey, with a burgundy tie, but I've no idea if it's clean.  May I ask why you need this information?_

I’ve had a buttonhole made to match at a little florist in the North Laine. A single claret rose with tiny pinkish-white waxflowers and some sprigs of spruce. I leave it at the check-in desk, along with a ridiculously large tip and explicit instructions that they are to give it to him, but make out that it’s all part of the service.

"I don’t want to scare him off," I say. "He’s likely look a bit lost or nervous, so you need to make sure he actually makes it into the Victoria Lounge. I want you to help him with anything he’s worried about and get him anything he needs."

One of the guys, the Welsh one (Gavin/Gareth?), is very friendly, almost to the point of fawning over me. His sidekick is almost as bad. It is work not to roll my eyes. I hope I’m not being too fierce; I tend to get extra sharp when I’m nervous. So I add, "We, well… we’ve had a bit of an argument and I’m trying to make it up to him."

"Aww," Gavin/Gareth says. Soft bastard.

Anyway, they agree to do what I ask. Good men.

I settle down at the piano at seven thirty. Simon isn’t here. I know I said that we could meet afterwards for a drink, but I’d hoped he might come to watch me play. Christ, I don’t know if he’s even coming. He didn’t said he wasn’t, but then again he didn’t say he was either. Damn you Snow, is a simple text message beyond your capabilities? I need to concentrate. Right. I’m going to assume he’s not coming and just get on with it.

There was a choir of children from local schools singing when I arrived and a five piece band is playing after me. I’m just the background music in between, whilst people eat. The manager wanted piano and singing – gentle, predictable Christmas music à la Crosby/Bublé variety. So that’s what they’re getting. Middle of the road I know, but it pays the bills. And, well, it _is_ Christmas.

At about nine o’clock, when I’ve just about given up looking for him in the crowd, I feel him staring at me – actually feel it. I finish ‘White Christmas’ and allow myself quick glance. He’s standing near the entrance, leaning against one of the pillars, a glass of champagne in his hand. I’ve never seen him looking so… polished. His hair is slicked back and parted on the side, he’s got a crisp white shirt and dark grey suit, with a claret tie and the buttonhole. Christ, Simon looks stunning in a grey suit.

I want to pull him aside and kiss him. Right there, in front of everyone. But instead I carry on playing, looking up every now and then to see where he is. He doesn’t move, except to drink his champagne. I check the time; I’ve got two songs left, so they need to count. I clear my throat and stand with as much dignity as I can muster. The piano stool scrapes.

 

**Simon**

I follow Gareth to a bar area off the main lobby. It feels a bit like walking into a library that has had a seriously smart bar installed at one end. It has decorative plaster ceilings and things in display cabinets that look like they should be in a museum. It doesn’t feel stuffy though. It’s got a sort of huge conservatory-style bit down one side and there are botanical murals on the wall. The Christmas decorations are mainly just white lights and greenery, with some of those red poinsettia plants, to kind of go with the garden feel. The furniture is smart and modern, green velvet chairs and sofas. Waiters in black pinstripe waistcoats and white shirts (with those posh gold arm bands things to hold their sleeves up) are carrying trays of champagne for people to just take! (I take one.) Plus, there’s a huge buffet table heaving with the fancy food in tiny portions. ("They’re called canapés," I imagine Agatha sighing. She would love it.)

I let myself look over to where Baz is performing and I freeze.

Apparently he is a magician.

At least it feels like he’s spelled me.

Really I don’t know how I even took in the rest of the room when he’s the clearly the centre piece. He’s sitting at the piano, lost in his music. He looks so fucking cool. He’s wearing a dark green, almost black suit with a dark pink tie. His smooth black hair is tied back in a bun, but strands have come loose and are falling round his face, his eyebrow ring catches the light every now and then, and his voice, well his voice is just… Baz. My breath hitches in the back of my throat. How are people just going about their evening? Don’t they all feel that pull? Surely they can’t all be immune? I swallow dryly and then knock back my champagne. A passing waiter takes my empty glass and hands me a fresh one.

"Thanks," I manage.

I’m going to need to go steady on the fizz. I lean against the nearest pillar for support. A couple of times Baz looks up and I think he notices me, but I’m not sure, as he doesn’t meet my eyes. And then he’s standing and I think it must be over. He’s looking right at me, smiling. And it’s such a genuine smile, that I’m taken aback and forget to return it. His eyes cloud slightly, but he regains his poise almost immediately.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it’s great to see so many people here tonight, I hope you are all having a lovely evening." he says. He pauses as people look up from their conversations and then continues. "But there’s one person here tonight who I wasn’t sure would make it. It’s someone to whom I owe a massive apology. I’d like to dedicate the next song to him."

I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks as people follow his gaze to me. I concentrate on not dropping my champagne flute.

"Simon, please forgive me for being such a complete moron," he says and sits back down at the piano.

He doesn’t look at me again, which is probably for the best, as I know I am bright red and hot. Blood is pounding in my ears and my palms are sweating. Part of me wants to leave; that was so public, I feel naked, like I’ve been outed in front of a group of strangers. (Okay, so he didn’t actually say anything other than sorry for being a tosser. It doesn’t mean we are together.) But the other part, the larger part of me wants to stay. Just because, I actually want to be here.

And because I love this song.

 

**Baz**

I’m usually good at public speaking (years of speech and drama lessons at school), but that’s when it doesn’t mean anything. But this did. Mean something. And I’d felt flustered, my words clichéd. Snow had looked acutely embarrassed and I wouldn’t put it past him to leave. I actually can’t look. I play the opening chords of Christmas Lights (Penny said it’s his favourite) and hope that he’s still there. I’ve changed a few of the lyrics – Oxford Street to the name of his street, and she to he. Not that he’ll probably notice.

 

**Simon**

This is my favourite Christmas song but he’s changed some of the lyrics.

 

**Baz**

When I finish, I look over. He’s still there and he looks adorably puzzled. I raise an eyebrow at him and he gives me a sheepish, lopsided grin. My heart soars.

"So once again, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being with us at The Grand this evening. I hope you have an amazing Christmas. This is my last song now, but the wonderful Candy Apple Blue will be with you shortly to take you through to midnight." I don’t recognise myself. Who is this guy talking, so full of Christmas Cheer?

I play ‘Cold December Night’ and release my inner Bublé. It’s beyond cheesy and I let myself watch him for several seconds at a time. But it’s Christmas so I’m allowed to indulge myself, (although there’s only a couple more days where that excuse will hold) and Simon Snow is here.

Simon Snow is here.

 

**Simon**

Is he singing this one to me too? He didn’t say so, but he keeps looking over and smiling. It feels like he is, so I'm going to take it.

 

**Baz**

"I’m here I’m yours." I finish and stare right at him. He’s bright red, but doesn’t look pissed off.

Then the manager comes over and is thanking me, shaking my hand and talking about a regular slot on a Sunday afternoon. I try to sound interested but I can’t help looking over his shoulder to where Snow is lingering by the pillar, like a dog that’s been left outside a shop. I continue to make polite noises to the manager as I pack up my sheet music and shove it in my courier bag. Please just leave. (The manager, I mean, not Snow. I never want Snow to leave.)

The manager finally moves off to glad-hand some of the guests. I have to stop myself from rushing over and pinning Snow against the wall. I put one hand in my pocket and saunter over as slowly as I can manage. It’s painful.

"Snow," I say.

"You called me Simon before."

I did. I should. Years of public schooling means first names don’t fall easily from my mouth.

"You came," I say, ignoring his comment.

"You invited me," he says simply, his chin thrust upwards.

 

**Simon**

"You invited me," I say. So lame.

"I did. Penny told me you didn’t have anywhere else to go."

Is he being rude? I can’t tell.

"I’m not exactly homeless, you know. I could be back at Lincoln Street now in front of an open fire…"

"In your Christmas jumper and trackie bottoms, I know, Snow."

He _is_ mocking me.

Why the fuck did I open myself up to this again. I really am thick.

But then he smiles.

"I thought they looked rather fetching. But this suit is…" he draws in a ragged breath, biting his lower lip and shaking his head, "…something else."

He reaches out towards my lapel. I sort of freeze and straighten up. I’m not sure how this all works. He must notice as he lowers his hand.

"So about that drink? Do you want to stay here? Or we could go somewhere else…"

"I… um… that is…." Fuck me come on, speak.

He turns and leans on the pillar next to me, facing outwards into the room. His shoulder bumps into mine. I think it’s intentional. It feels friendly and unthreatening and I try to relax.

"I won’t bite, you know," he says.

His hand is brushing mine. I almost reach out my little finger to touch him. Instead, I put my fingers down the front of my collar and pull at my top button and tie growling. I hate formal clothes.


	8. Freezing Snow

**Baz**

Simon Snow growls. He actually growls. (At me?)

"There’s just so many people here."

"Are you ashamed to be seen with me?" I sneer, out of habit, folding my arms.

"What? No. No. It’s just so n…noisy," he stammers. He’s stupidly flustered. It’s endearing.

"Oh," I say, softer again now. "So d’you want to get out of here then?"

"I want to get out of this fucking suit."

Oh Snow, it really would be my pleasure.

"Let’s not do anything hasty," I laugh.

"What? No! I mean! Um…" he blusters. I am beginning to learn that Snow blusters like no one else.

"Come on, Snow," I say, peeling myself off the pillar and leading the way out of the bar.

It’s bloody freezing outside. As I pull my long black overcoat closer round me I realise Snow is in nothing but his suit.

"Did you come out without a coat, Snow?"

"I left in a bit of a hurry. I didn’t notice until I was half way here. Don’t worry, I don’t feel the cold that much, especially when I’ve been drinking."

I wonder how much he’s had. We walk along the seafront, the burnt shell of the West Pier just visible in the moonlight. We’re only about a ten minute walk from my flat. He doesn’t ask where we’re going. We don’t talk at all. I don’t know what to say, now that I’ve actually got him to myself. I haven’t been drinking, so If he comes back to mine, I can give him a lift home on the back of my old Triumph. I tell myself that he won’t get a cab at this time of night on Christmas Eve, so I’d be doing him a favour. He’d have to hold on tight though. Lucky me.

We’re at the band stand. If we’re going to mine, we’ll need to turn up the road, away from the promenade when we get to the Peace Statue. I stop and stare out to sea, shoving my hands deep in my pockets. Snow bends down and picks up some stones, reminding me about what I need to tell him, but I can’t look him in the eye.

I let out a dramatic sigh, clouds of vapour hanging in the frigid air.

"What is it, Baz?" he asks.

I can feel him studying my profile, but I keep looking out into the darkness.

"I saw you," I say. "That night when we first met. After I left the pub. You were sitting on the beach, skimming stones. You looked so alone. I wanted to come and apologise straight away. I knew I’d been a bastard."

"So why didn’t you?"

He starts to throw the stones he picked up. He’s worked out that I can’t do this face-to-face.

"Honestly? I’d had too much to drink and I thought I might just end up offending you again. I always manage to fuck up when I really care about something." I toe at the stones, embarrassed. "Plus, I was afraid you’d deck me."

"Probably would’ve," he huffs, throwing the last of his stones at the sea. "I’m good at fighting."

"Oh, right." Fair play.

He shoves me with his shoulder. "But I like this better."

"What? Throwing stones, or freezing your arse off on the seafront?" I turn to face him.

"No," he says. "This."

And then he kisses me.

Simon Snow kisses me.

He pulls me by the lapels of my coat and crashes his face into mine. I fall into him slightly. Jesus bloody Christ, Simon fucking Snow is kissing me. I extract my hands from my pockets with some difficulty as they are currently crushed between our bodies, and put my hands on the back of his neck, pushing down into his kiss (he’s a couple of inches shorter than me). I’ve never kissed anyone properly before and it’s a bit of a mess really, but I don’t want to stop. Simon makes this noise in his throat and bites softly on my bottom lip. It hits me right in my stomach. I lower my hands to behind his back and try to tear my gloves off without breaking the kiss. Honestly, it’s clumsy and feels a bit like we’re wrestling, but I want to feel his bronze curls in my bare fingers. I have done for such a long time. They are softer than I’d imagined, and springy and as I tangle my fingers in them, an involuntary moan escapes my lips. It’s embarrassing, but Simon doesn’t seem to be bothered. If anything it makes him kiss me more fiercely.

After a few minutes, it dawns on me that although Simon’s mouth is hot, I’m freezing, and I’m wearing appropriate clothing for the season. Simon is in a fairly lightweight wool suit. Dashing though he looks in it, I don’t want him to expire from hypothermia. I reluctantly pull back from the kiss. We’re both breathing hard.

"Simon," I say and am shocked at how wobbly my voice sounds.

 

**Simon**

Fuck me. Kissing Baz is nothing like kissing Agatha. Agatha’s mouth was soft and warm, her kisses were gentle and languid. Baz’s mouth is hard and cold, he kisses like his life depends on it. That’s because it’s sub-zero out here. And Baz is a boy. I’m kissing a boy. But as there’s no one else mad enough to be on the sea front at this time of night on Christmas Eve, I decide not to worry about that just now. I’m kissing Baz. Baz is kissing me back. He smells so good and I don’t ever want to stop, but then he pulls away. Did I do something wrong? I’ve never kissed a boy before, so I’m not sure.

"Simon," he says.

"What?"

I must sound defensive because he laughs. He actually laughs, the bastard.

"You must be freezing."

"I’m fine." (I’m freezing.)

"Well, I’m not, you absolute nightmare. Come on, my flat’s just up the road. Do you want to come back for a coffee or something?"

Whoa. That moved fast. Baz’s flat. Am I ready for that?

"Alright," I say.

Well, I _am_ freezing.

 

**Baz**

Simon Snow is following me into my flat. Christ, I’m leading a charmed life.

 

**Simon**

As soon as we enter Baz’s flat, we are assaulted by a sleek black cat. Baz scoops it up and kisses its head, talking to it. I think my heart melts. Just a little.

"I know, Niall, but you’ve had your dinner. I tell you what, I’ll give you a few biscuits, would that be okay?"

"You have a cat?"

It’s not the existence of a cat that’s floored me. It’s just wired seeing him being so… soft.

"So it would seem," he says, his lip curling slightly.

Back to his usual self then. But I don’t let it bother me; I’m learning he doesn’t always mean anything by it.

Baz’s flat is just what I expected it to be – fucking perfect.

And yet, not what I expected – mostly white.

I kind of thought it might be all red and black and gothic, but it’s more like something out of one of Penny’s mum’s home style magazines. There’s a bedroom on the left hand side. It’s very tidy, with a huge double bed. It has an oversized pale grey buttoned headboard and the bedding is white. There is a really soft looking grey blanket at the end of the bed. I feel a strange sense of jealousy as I wonder how many blokes Baz has had back here since he came to university. No, I’m not going there. That road leads to torment.

I follow him into the living room. A simple white kitchen area runs across the back of the room, kind of behind you as you come in, but the main room is amazing. It’s fucking enormous, with really high ceilings. There are two floor to ceiling windows at the front that lead out onto a balcony. On the left, there’s this huge ornate mirror above a marble mantelpiece. Book cases are built in on either side. The upper shelves are full of books, (even more than Penelope’s got) and the lower shelves contain the largest vinyl collection I’ve ever seen. There isn’t much furniture: a grey L-shaped sofa, a glass coffee table and an expensive-looking rug in front of the fire. And then to the right of the room, in front of the window, there’s a piano. Not just one of those upright ones, but a grand piano. ("It’s just a baby Grand, Snow." He tells me later when I tease him about it.) I can’t believe a student, even one as posh as Baz, has a grand piano in their flat. His guitar is on a stand in the corner and there’s a violin case next to it. A couple of huge paintings, obviously by local artists hang on the walls (there was a similar one in the bedroom too) and there are piles of sheet music and photos scattered over the coffee table. I can’t see a TV. Apart from a couple of expensive looking cards on the mantelpiece you wouldn’t know it was Christmas. He has no decorations, not even a string of fairy lights.

Baz has taken his boots and coat and off, and undone his tie and top button. He pads over to the fireplace in black stockinged feet and crouches down to start the fire using one of those long matches. Then he dims the lights and goes to put one of the records on, pulling one from the shelf almost reverently. Smooth git. There’s the slight crackle of static from the needle, then something classical starts playing softly. Smooth and bloody posh – can’t he use Spotify like everyone else? I’m not quite sure where to put myself. I don’t want to break anything or get it dirty. But as I’m still really cold, I go to stand by the fire, staring as the flames gradually take hold of the logs. I take off my tie too and shove it in my jacket pocket.

"Are you okay, Snow?"

Baz is hovering behind me. I can see him in the mirror.

"I’m fine," I say.

"Can I get you a drink? Beer? Jack Daniels? Something hot?"

He might be smooth, but he’s still obviously nervous. Good, it’s not just me. I turn to face him.

"Actually, is there any chance I could have a shower? I’m fucking freezing."

He looks at me, like he can’t quite believe what I’ve just asked. I guess it is a bit of a strange request in a virtual stranger’s house. Even one who’s tongue you’ve had in your mouth. That thought makes me flush all over again.

"If it’s not okay I can, I mean I…"

"It’s fine, Snow. Of course," he says calmly. "There are towels in the bathroom. Help yourself to whatever you need. I was just thinking about whether offering to lend you some more comfortable clothes would be too weird."

Apart from the suit tonight, I’m trying remember whether I’ve ever seen Baz in anything other than skinny black jeans. The thought of him owning anything, well, comfortable, just seems absurd.

"I don’t think I’d fit in your jeans, Baz."

"Bathroom’s first door on the left," he says, rolling his eyes and disappearing to his room.

Baz has the poshest bathroom and the fluffiest towels.

And now I know why he smells so good. It’s his shower gel – bergamot and cedar according to the label. It’s my new favourite smell.

 

**Baz**

I find a pair of trackie bottoms that Snow can borrow. I’ll admit it I bought a pair to see what all the fuss was about, but I’ve not really worn them. They might be a bit long for him (and they’re black not grey), but I’m sure he’ll survive. I grab a t-shirt and hoodie and some big thick socks and leave them on the end of my bed. The shower is running. Simon Snow is in my shower. Okay, _that_ I can’t think about just now.

I knock on the door.

"Simon?"

"Yeah?"

"I’ve left you some clothes on my bed if you want to wear them instead of your suit," I call through the door, hoping he can hear me above the sound of the water.

I go into the living room and make sure the fire is roaring. I’ll admit it, I’m a bit of a pyromaniac. Runs in the family. Then make some hot chocolate with whipped cream and Jack Daniels (I have a ridiculously sweet tooth, what can I say?). I’m just considering whether the addition of marshmallows would be too much when he comes back in. I have to stop my jaw from dropping. Holy hell, Simon Snow is in my apartment, freshly showered, wearing my clothes, his wet hair flopping in his eyes. He’s striding over to me and I’m just standing here with two mugs of hot chocolate, like a fucking numpty. I genuinely don’t know how to proceed. How do you get back to the kissing bit, when you’ve got a pair of drinks in your hands more suited to a teenagers’ sleepover (even if they have got a good slug of whisky in them). He takes both mugs from me and places them on the coffee table. Then he reaches up, smoothing my hair back, grasps the back of my neck and pulls me into another of his expert kisses. That’s how then.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this. I love getting your comments, so please let me know if you liked it!


	9. Confessions

**Simon**

Later, when we’re dozing on the sofa in front of the open fire, and we’ve kissed so much our mouths are actually sore, Baz says, "So when did you change your mind about me?"

I shrug, "I’m not sure I have, entirely."

"Hmm. Right," he says into my hair. (I’m resting my head on his chest).

I’m certainly not going to tell him how I found out that I had feelings for him. That it was when I was in the shower, about a week after the gig at the Dove. I’d been thinking about how much I hated him, and how much I’d like to punch his lights out. (It was a common thought in the first week or so after the gig, so to be fair, thinking about him in the shower wasn’t as strange as it sounds.) I’d been imagining seeing him on campus and slamming him up against the wall of Arts A and getting right up in his face. But then… then instead of shouting something abusive at him, or hitting him, I’d thought about kissing him. About how I’d like to pin him against the wall, my thigh between his legs, and grasp his black hair in my fist, forcing his lips down into mine. I’d make him whimper with desire and beg me not to stop…

When I’d realised what I was doing, I’d rested my head against the cold tiles and groaned in disbelief. What had the bastard done to me? I tried thinking of Daenerys from Game of Thrones, but my thoughts wondered from her to Jon Snow’s dark eyes and wild hair. And from there to the grey eyed, black haired musician, with his jeans that fit just so.

So yeah, I’m not going to tell him that. Maybe another time.

"So why did you kiss me?" he says.

"I guess I wanted to," I say, shrugging again and trying to sound casual.

He doesn’t need to know just yet that he’s already the song I can’t get out of my head. That he’s all I can think about from when I get up in the morning to when I go to bed at night. That he’s the reason I’m not with Penny for Christmas for the first time in years. That I’d go through the last few weeks of hell a thousand times over if it meant being here with him now. Nah, he doesn’t need to know that just yet; he’s way too cocky. It’s good to keep him slightly on the back foot.

I rest my hand on his stomach.  "Did you want me to kiss you?" I ask, sliding my fingers between the buttons on his shirt.

His skin is warm and I stroke where the light sprinkling of hair comes up from his waistband.

"No," he says, but I know he’s lying because he sucks in air between his teeth in response to my touch. I love that can make him do that.

I’m trying so hard not to compare, but I keep thinking about how different this is to being with Agatha. It’s not anything to do with Agatha herself. I mean Agatha’s lovely. It’s just that, even in three years, all we ever did was kiss a bit and hold hands. And I know it sounds weird, I mean, we were hormonal teenagers, but even so, I never wanted more than that. But with Baz? With Baz, I do want more. Although it’s only a couple of hours since we first kissed, with Baz I want it all.

I shift slightly on the sofa, just getting a bit more comfortable, but it must have disturbed him.

"Are you staying?" he says, taking me by surprise, "or do you want me to drop you back?"

"Is that okay?" I say.

"Of course. If that’s what you want."

His voice sounds strangely strained. He gets up so quickly from the sofa that I face-plant the cushion where he had been sitting just a moment before. He strides to the kitchen area and starts rummaging in a pot on the side. When he comes back over, he’s got a set of keys in his hand.

"You have ridden pillion before haven’t you?" He asks.

"What?" I say, sitting up now.

"On a motorbike. You know how to ride pillion?"

"Baz, what are you talking about, I thought you just asked if I wanted to stay?"

He looks confused, one eyebrow raised.

"I thought you just said you wanted to leave?"

"No!" it comes out a little more desperate than I’d intended.

I reach up and catch his hand, dragging him back down towards the sofa, until he’s kneeling on the floor between my thighs. I take his face in my hands. "It’s Christmas Eve," I say. "Why would I want to go back to a cold, empty house…" I punctuate each word with a kiss, "…when everything I could possibly want right now is here?"

He’s trying to say something, but I keep stopping him with more kisses. He places his hand on my chest and pushes me back.

"It’s just. It’s not exactly Christmassy here, Simon. I haven’t got a tree, or a turkey, or presents. I haven’t even got any mistletoe."

He called me Simon.

"Fuck mistletoe," I say and start to undo his shirt buttons.

 

**Baz**

Simon Snow is seriously at risk of making me fall deeper in love with him than I ever dreamed was possible.

I’m so screwed.

We haven’t exactly talked much yet, it’s mostly been kissing. It’s just I think he thinks I’m more experienced than I am, and I’m not sure how to broach it with him. I mean for Christ’s sake, I’m a single gay man, not too shabby looking, living alone in Brighton. What is he likely to think? As for him, I know he went out with Agatha for quite some time. But I don’t know how serious it was. I don’t really know anything about him. It’s all so new to me and I don’t want to mess this up. We’re lying on the rug in front of the fire, holding hands. Neither of us has our shirt on, and Simon is just drawing little circles on my chest, almost absentmindedly. Which feels amazing. It all feels so good.

He turns, raising himself up on one elbow, his hair falling into his eyes. It’s golden in the firelight.

"So, do you do this all the time?" he asks, like he’s been reading my mind.

"No," I say.

"Really?"

"Really, Snow. You’re the first person I’ve ever brought back to the flat."

He seems satisfied as he lies back down, closing his eyes, and hums to himself.

"What about you?" I ask.

"Hardly!" he laughs. "I’ve only ever kissed Agatha before you."

"So you’re not gay?"

"I dunno, I’ve never really thought about it before. Although, I s’pose I’ve been thinking about you, and what that means for the last couple of weeks."

"How can you not know?"

"I don’t know," he says. "Does it really matter?"

He starts running his hand over my stomach again and it’s dangerously close to the waistband of my jeans. "What I can tell you though, is that I’m currently not averse to the situation." He smiles that lopsided smile of his and leans over to kiss me again.

How is he so self-assured? I mean, I _know_  I’m gay and I need some time to get my head round how fast this is all moving. Why doesn’t it bother him?  I mumble some feeble excuse about being really tired after the gig and go and get some pillows and a blanket  from my room. When I put them next to him on the sofa he looks mildly hurt. I force myself to say, "Well goodnight, Snow."

He doesn’t fight me on it and as I climb into my own cold bed I instantly regret leaving him. And of course I can’t sleep, my mind is racing. I keep thinking about him, thinking about me and what it all means. How can he not know whether he’s gay? I’ve never even questioned it.

About half an hour later though, there’s a knock at my door. Simon is standing there, still bare chested, with Niall in his arms.

"It’s me or the cat," he says gruffly.

"What?"

"He keeps getting into bed with me and his fur is making me sneeze. Only one of us can sleep on that sofa, so who do you want for company? Me or the cat?"

What a stupid fucking question.

"Niall, you’ve got your sofa back," I say, taking him from Simon and shutting him in the living room.

"I can sleep on the floor if you prefer?" he says.

"You will not." It comes out fiercer than I’d intended. "I think I can control myself, Snow. Come on, get in."

I assume Simon will be a starfish sleeper, but actually, he curls up next to me in a foetal position and is asleep almost immediately. I lie on my back, with my head turned towards him. I put my hands behind my head to stop me from reaching out and touching his curls. I don’t want to wake him. That would just start the kissing over again. (Christ, I do want to wake him, but I know this is for the best, for tonight at any rate). His breathing is soft and steady and it’s just so weird; it’s like being back at boarding school, hearing someone else in the room. But a really good boarding school. Where Simon Snow is your roommate and you get to sleep in a huge double bed with him.

I never shut the curtains in the bedroom – the room isn’t overlooked and I like looking at the stars. Not that you can see many over the brown-orange glow of the city sky. Simon’s skin looks silver rather than golden in this light and I fall asleep studying the constellations on his arms and his chest. I’m scared at how easily I could get used to this.

I must have slept like the dead, because when I wake up, his side of the bed is empty. I reach over and the sheets are cold.

 

**Simon**

I look in Baz’s fridge; it’s virtually bare. There’s some beer, a carton of milk, a packet of fresh coffee, some real butter and a couple of mint Aeros. The cupboards aren’t much better: just a packet of posh tea, a few tins and jars and a packet of pasta. What the fuck was he planning to have for his Christmas dinner? Pasta pesto? I get my phone from my jacket pocket and do a quick search, before letting myself quietly out of the flat.

 

**Baz**

I feed Niall.

"I guess it’s just you and me buddy," I say.

I pick up the poker and jab at the fire, it’s completely cold. I can’t be bothered to clean it out. What’s the point? I try to think what I did wrong this time. I stomp across the room and push one of the sash windows right up, going outside in just my t-shirt and jeans. It’s freezing, but I don’t care; I’ll fucking freeze to death. I lean on the balcony and consider having a cigarette. I started smoking at school, hoping to get kicked out. And to piss off my Father. But I haven’t had one since I moved into the flat.

"I’m not paying to have the place re-decorated and re-furnished if you’re going to make it smell like a fucking ashtray," Fiona said. Hypocrite.

Still, I was desperate to get rid of the navy and terracotta colour scheme and the worn-out furniture (My skin crawled at the thought of how many people had slept and done god-knows what in that bed). I handed my cigarettes over, and she gave me the keys, a posh furniture catalogue and the number for a local decorator.

If I look left, I can just see the sea from the balcony. It’s grey and restless today, matching the sky and my mood. Niall joins me outside and rubs his head on my legs. I lean down to scratch his ears, looking over the edge of the balcony as I do so. Simon Snow is standing looking up at me, a carrier bag in each hand. Fuck knows how he found anywhere open on Christmas day. He’s a shark, detecting a drop of blood in a million litres of water. And he’s still not wearing a sodding coat.

"About bloody time. I didn’t think you’d ever wake up," he says.

"What the fuck are you doing down there, Snow?"

"Happy Christmas to you too, Baz. So are you going to let me in? Your buzzer’s not working and I’m freezing my bollocks off down here."

"Well we can’t have that, can we?" I smirk, raising an eyebrow.

"Fuck you, Baz," he says, blushing. And then blushing even more when I raise my eyebrow again. But he’s laughing, so I know he’s not really pissed off.

I duck back inside and push the buzzer to let him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left. I've loved writing this - it's so hard to let these guys go.


	10. Will it always be like this?

**Simon**

Well, it might not be the haute cuisine they were serving at The Grand last night, but it’s the best I could manage from the twenty-four hour convenience store I’d found open. We have croissants and butter for breakfast. I eat three in rapid succession whilst Baz picks at his single one. We wash it down with mugs of tea, I have normal and Baz has his weird posh stuff with about fifty sugars in it. ("Earl Grey is not exactly _posh_ , Snow," Baz says rolling his eyes. "You can buy it in any supermarket.")

Then for lunch we have two Christmas dinner ready meals, on our laps, in front of the fire. I even managed to find a box of Christmas crackers and a bottle of prosecco.

"A ready meal, Snow?" Baz says, dubiously prodding a rather grey looking sprout with his fork.

"What? I’m not a fucking magician. And anyway, what was the alternative? Beans on toast? You know what you are, Baz? You’re a snob and an ungrateful tosser."

"I’m kidding, Snow. I love that you went out on Christmas morning to find food. It’s very… domesticated of you."

"Really? Is this how it’s always going to be? Me trying to do something nice and you taking the piss?"

"Pretty much," he smirks, downing the last of his Prosecco.

I’d hit him with a cushion, but well, there aren’t any in this minimalist paradise.

My glass is empty too, so I go to the fridge to get us a top up. I spot the mint Aeros.

I hand Baz his refill and drop the chocolate bar on his lap.

"What’s this?"

"Pudding," I shrug. "They didn’t have any mince pies left."

"I don’t like them anyway. A mint Aero is an infinitely superior desert."

He snaps off a square and offers it to me. I take it and pop it in my mouth, letting it melt on my tongue. He looks like he’s miles away.

"Baz?"

"I left you one of these once, at the library," he says.

"That was you?" I’m surprised and confused.

He nods and looks down at his hands.

"I always thought it was Penny," I say. "I just forgot to ask her. The tea was you, too I suppose?"

"Yeah."

"Why d’you do it?"

Now he’s the one shrugging.

"Seriously. What made you leave me food and drink? You didn’t even know me."

"I guess I felt sorry for you. It was late and you seemed so tired and alone."

"Yeah, but there were other students studying late, you didn’t supply them all with snacks did you?"

"No, Snow. Of course not."

"Why didn’t you say something? Leave a note?"

"What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, I’m the strange goth guy who’s been hanging round the library stacks watching you for the best part of the year.’? You’d have run a mile."

 

**Baz**

He frowns.

"I wouldn't call you a goth, Baz. Are you?"

He’s surprised that I called myself a goth, but not that I’d been creeping on him for a year?

"No, Snow. I just happen to like wearing black. It goes with my sparkling personality."

He frowns.

"Why do you always do that?"

"Do what, call you Snow?"

"No, put yourself down."

"I’ve got issues," I sneer. "I’m seeing a counsellor for them."

"Christ, Baz. We all have our problems."

"Yeah, well, you’d be pretty fucked up if your mother was murdered and your father couldn’t stand the sight of you and sent you to boarding school at the age of six."

"I have no parents and spent most of my life in children’s homes and foster care."

Of course he did. Way to go Baz. But it seems I’m on a roll now.

"This isn’t a competition, Snow."

"Then stop making it one. What I’m trying to say Baz is that everyone has history."

"And your point is?"

"My point is, we don’t have to do this to each other. We’ve both had shit things happen to us in the past, but we don’t have to let them stop us from moving on with our lives."

"Who are you, my fucking counsellor?" I spit.

"You’re exasperating," he says, standing up.

"I know. It’s one of my special talents."

"Can you just stop talking like that for a minute?"

I realise I’ve been knocking back the prosecco. I never drink wine, it doesn’t agree with me. It makes me morose. I turn away. I’m doing it again. Sabotaging any chance of happiness before I get hurt. I drop my head on my arms.

"Just go, Snow. I’m a fucking mess and I’ve ruined Christmas. It’s what I do."

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he moves closer and puts his hand on my arm. I shrug it off, but he’s a stubborn git.

"No."

"Just. Fuck. Off."

"No Baz, you’re not going to do this. Penny warned me that you had a tendency to self-destruct and I’m not about to let that happen. You can’t make me fall for you and then tell me to fuck off. That’s not how it works."

Fucking Bunce.

"Look at me Baz."

I keep my head turned away.

"Look at me!" he growls.

But he’s not angry, he sounds strong and determined. He’s moved now and is crouched down in front of me. He puts a hand under my chin and turns my head to face him. I look up to see blue eyes staring at me, a silent tear rolling down his cheek. He holds my face in both his hands now.

"Stop pushing me away. I don’t know how to do this – how to be your boyfriend, that is. But I want to try, and I’ll need you to help me." Then he falters slightly, "That’s if you still want me to be."

I do. I do want this. I can’t believe how suddenly this afternoon has turned into a shipwreck. He’s the lighthouse and I’m clinging to the rocks. I’m too tired. I can’t fight any more. I slump forward onto his shoulder and he climbs up onto the sofa next to me, cradling me in his arms, rocking me like a baby as I shake. He keeps kissing my head and stroking my hair and murmuring "It’s going to be alright, Baz."

I want to hate him for making me so vulnerable, but I don’t. He’s seen me at my lowest ebb. I tried to push him away, and yet he’s still here. Simon Snow is a courageous fuck. And I’m hopelessly in love with him.

 

**Simon**

He falls asleep and I hold him. I feel bad for judging him so harshly in the past. Fuck, I knew he’d lost his mum and had been to boarding school, (Penny had told me) but I assumed posh kids lived charmed lives. He seemed so sure of himself; he could certainly act like a complete arsehole at times. From the outside looking in, it seemed he had it all – good looks, brains, talent and an amazing flat. And yet, he’d been too nervous to approach me for over a year. How can anyone have such low self-esteem when they have so much going for them? But it took courage for him to admit that to me and now that I know how much of the cocky Baz is just front, I can relax. What did Penny call us? A pair of lost boys? Well, maybe we’ve finally found each other.

If someone had told me that all this would happen before I’d gone to that gig in November, I’d have laughed at them. I couldn’t have imagined that I’d be spending Christmas in a beautiful flat in Hove, rather than at Penny’s house. That I’d be curled up in front of a fire with an even more beautiful grey-eyed musician. That I’d be cradling a crying boy, and trying hard not to tell him that I’m falling in love with him. But when has life ever been what I expected?

I gently extricate myself from underneath him. He stirs slightly, but stays asleep. I put the oven on and then get the last few bits of shopping out of the carrier bags, opening the cupboards as quietly as I can to find the things I need. Ten minutes later, he’s still sleeping. I wander over to shelf with all the vinyl and run my finger along the titles. It’s an amazingly eclectic mix; from classical to hard rock with everything in between. And of course, it’s immaculately organised. I recognise a name and carefully pull it from the shelf. I laugh to myself. Blooming Agatha – the only thing I have in common with the boy on the front cover is my hair, and my eyes I guess.

An arm slips round my waist and then Baz is nuzzling my neck. He rests his chin on my shoulder, looking over to see what I’ve got in my hands.

"Blue Neighbourhood," he says. "Put it on if you like."

"I was just looking at the cover really."

"S’funny," he says, still a bit dozy. "I always thought you looked a bit like him, you know. It’s what made me buy the record in the first place."

He takes it from me and puts it to one side before pulling me round into a kiss. It’s gentle and tender, not like the fierce kisses from last night.

"I’m really sorry," he says, brushing my hair back from my face.

I look up into sincere, dark grey eyes and raise my hand to the side of his face. "I can cope with anything but being shut out, okay?"

He swallows and lets out a shuddery sigh.

"Noted, Snow. I promise to try."

"That’s good enough for me," I say, tipping my head back, giving him access to my lips again. His mouth is still gentle and he feathers kisses along my jaw, before resting his forehead on mine. Then he sniffs.

"Is… is something burning, Snow?"

"Fuck! The scones."

I rush over to the oven and open the door, expecting smoke. It’s not a total catastrophe. The scones are a little more ‘golden’ than I would have liked, but they look like they’ll be perfectly edible. Especially once they’re smothered in butter.

"Snow, did you bake these yourself?" he says coming over to join me, surveying the scene.

I look at the mess in the sink, and on the worktop. And the floor around the kitchen area too. (Flour packets are tricky bastards to open.)

"Yeah, sorry about the mess."

"Oh, sod the mess," he says. (Although I’m sure I see his eyebrow twitching.) "You baked scones? For me? For Christmas tea?" He looks amazed.

"They’re my favourites, so I was kind of doing it for me too," I admit.

"Stop being self-depreciating," he says, "and put the kettle on."

 

We’re just settling down to tea and scones in front of Baz’s fire when my phone rings. I find it down the side of the sofa. I notice a string of text messages. It’s Penny FaceTiming me.

She’s too close to the camera, (as usual) so part of her face is covered by mine.

"Where have you been, Simon? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day."

Straight in. No pleasantries first.

"My phone was down the side of the sofa, sorry."

She rolls her eyes.

"Typical. You’re okay though?"

"Fine. You? How is everyone?"

"Fine. Hectic, overcrowded as usual. Mum’s already shouted at Premal for throwing all the wrapping paper in the dustbin without separating the recyclable bits, and Priya and Pip have been fighting over whether it’s okay to be vegetarian all year, but still eat Christmas dinner…"

Baz starts trying to distract me. He starts by poking me in the ribs, making me jerk away slightly.

"And Dad, well you know Dad. He’s just been shut up in his study for most of the day. Then that set Mum off again because….."

I risk a quick glance at him and he grins, like he’s made of trouble. He starts running his hand up my thigh, moving in closer, aiming his lips at the mole on my neck. I hold the phone Penny-style, so that she can only see my face. But she doesn’t miss a trick.

"Simon, where are you? That’s not our living room."

"I..um.."

Baz squeezes my thigh and his kiss turns to a suck on my neck. He’s impossibly sexy. I bite my lip to stifle a groan.

"Is someone there with you?"

Baz squashes his cheek next to mine and grabs my phone, moving it so we can both be seen on the screen.

"Hello, Bunce. Happy Christmas," he says.

"Basilton!" she laughs

"I’ve kidnapped Snow, I’m afraid. Couldn’t have him having Christmas all alone, no food in the house, crying into his empty stocking, wishing he had some handsome musician to be sharing his scones with."

I huff. "Says pasta pesto boy."

"Oh and the ready meal was so much better was it?"

"At least it was vaguely Christmassy you unappreciative prat. And I did get crackers. Not that you’d deign to wear the paper hat, of course."

"I would’ve if there’d been a purple one. I don’t suit orange or yellow."

"It’s Christmas! It doesn’t matter what colour the bloody thing is. Anyway, you know you’d have looked fucking perfect in it."

"That’s true. And at least it would have fitted on my head."

"I’m not so sure, going by the size of your ego."

"Umm.. hello?" a tinny shout reminds us that we’re still supposedly FaceTiming with Penny. "I’m still here when you guys have stopped flirting."

"Oh shit, sorry Penny." I say, bringing the phone back up to my face.

"I’m going to go. I was feeling sorry for you all alone, but by the sound of things, you’ve got it covered."

"It’s all good, Penny."

"Yeah, I’ll look after him until you get back," Baz says, leaning into the frame again.

"You’d better," Penny says, and for once I know the glare is not aimed at me. "I’ll be back on New Year’s Eve. Make sure there’s some food in the house, Simon."

She ends the call.

"So," Baz says. "It looks like I’ve got you all to myself for a few more days. Lucky me. What am I going to do with you?"

"Drive me crazy?" I huff.

"I’ll do my best, Snow" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"I like Simon," I say.

He pushes me back on the sofa, crashing his lips on mine. Winding his fingers tightly in my curls. Claiming me.

"Oh, so do I," he says, between kisses. "I like Simon very, very much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this ended up so long - it was only going to be a quick one-shot!  
> Thanks for staying with me.  
> And thank you to the amazing Rainbow Rowell for her inspirational characters.


	11. Epilogue - New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve

(15.15) **Seriously?  You live in Brighton and you’ve never been on the roller coaster?**  

(15.15) Hove, actually.  And no. 

(15.16) **Why not?**  

(15.16) I try to avoid the Pier – it’s full of tourists and children.  Both of whom I find extremely irksome.  

(15.17) **But the roller coaster is amazing its wicked fast Penny and I love it**  

(15.17) Bizarrely enough, the thought of risking my life hurtling round a rickety old funfair ride has never really appealed to me 

(15.18) **You’re so weird I once rode it 3 times in a row and nearly lost my donuts**  

(15.18) And that’s supposed to make it more appealing is it? 

(15.18) **No I mean literally –they nearly fell out of the bag** **.  Come on Baz, its new year…**  

(15.19) No, Snow 

(15.19) **I thought your new years resolution was to try new things and stop being such a miserable git**

(15.20)That was your idea.  I don’t remember agreeing to that.  

(15.20) And it’s New Year’s Eve, so resolutions don’t start until tomorrow. 

(15.20) **Fine**  

(15.20) You mean I get off that easily?  

(15.21) **No!! Fine to the new years resolution. You’re still going on the roller coaster with me :p**  

(15.21) I will not. 

(15.22) **I can picture you now walking along the seafront with your hands thrust in your pockets and a grumpy look on that pretty face of yours**  

(15.23) You have a vivid imagination, Snow.  

(15.23) **I know**  

(15.23) Besides, I couldn’t text if I had my hands in my pockets 

(15.24) **Well, be careful you don’t bump into anyone** **-** **walking and texting can be hazardous**  

(15.24) I’m not you, Snow 

(15.25) **I know but these things can happen to the best of us :) Anyway where are you? You said you’d be ten minutes**  

(15.25) Yes, but I have to keep slowing down to answer texts from some annoying bloke… 

 

Simon 

I’m sitting in a booth by the window in _Ebb and Flo’s_ , my favourite café on the seafront.  It’s a really cool place kind of 1950s American diner meets British seaside.  There’s a juke box and loads of photos and memorabilia from bands that have played in Brighton, but the colour scheme is all washed-out seaside, driftwood and dainty floral bunting.  It sounds weird, but it works.  I’ve been nursing the same mug of tea, and people watching for the past hour.  Penny’s back from London this afternoon and she’s bringing Agatha with her for New Year. To be honest, I’m not sure what to expect.  I haven’t spoken to her since that night at the Dove, and I’d rather Penny fill her in before we all meet up this evening, so I’m keeping out of the way.  

Baz has gone home for a few days.  He called his little sister on Christmas day and she was beside herself that he wasn’t home for Christmas for the second year running.  He tried to tell her that he’d had to work and was also looking after a friend’s dog for a few days, but I guess she wore him down.   

\---

“What’s it called?” she asks, her voice suspicious. 

“Snowy,” he says, trying to keep a straight face.  

“Like in the Tintin books?” 

“The very same, except he’s much bigger and hungrier,” he smirks at me. 

I try not to feel offended – do all my friends refer to me as an overgrown dog now? 

“Why don’t you just bring him with you?” 

“Where would he stay, Delia?” 

“With you, in your room of course,” she says. 

“I’m not sure that Father would agree to that.  Anyway, I’ll see you in a couple of days, at Aunt Fiona’s.” 

“Father says he’s not taking me to that ‘bloody woman’s house’ this side of New Year,” she sighs dramatically, “and I want to see you now.” 

“What?” he frowns.  

“He says if I want to see you, you’ll have to come here.” 

Baz swallows and pulls at his jeans. 

“You know I can’t do that, little puff,” he says sadly. 

“Baz, I’m not a baby, I’m nine years old, not a little Puff.” 

“Sorry, of course, I keep forgetting,” his eyes crinkle with amusement. 

“Well, if you’d come to see me more often, maybe you wouldn’t,” she huffs. 

“I talk to you all the time and you’ve been here with Fiona,” he says with uncharacteristic patience. I’m not sure how much she knows about the situation with Baz’s father.   

“Yeah, but it’s not the same as having you here,” her voice sounds small. 

“Delia…” he sighs, looking conflicted. 

“Well then, you’ll just have to make it up to me with an even bigger present, won’t you?” she says with the amazing recovery skills afforded to young children. 

“How did you get to be such a devil child?” he laughs. 

“I learnt from the best.” 

He kind of shuts down when he gets off the phone and I’m not sure what to say. So I don’t say anything.  He’d told me stuff about his father and how much he hates him, but it’s obvious he adores his little sister. He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring at his hands then he gets up and gazes out of the window.  I move behind him and slip my arms round his waist, resting my cheek on his shoulder. We stay like that for a while and I breathe in his now familiar scent, listening to his heart beat solidly, the ends of his hair brushing my eyelashes.  Finally he turns, his eyes dark and serious. 

“Right,” he says, decision made.  “I need to make a few phone calls, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course, I’ll um… go and have a shower.” 

He makes a few hushed phone calls whilst I take a long shower to give him some privacy.   

“When you’ve quite finished using all the hot water, and turning my bathroom into a swamp, I’ll drop you home if you like,” he calls through the door.  

It’s not exactly my fault, I did think I’d shut the shower door. 

When I get off his bike, I remove my helmet and put it in the box on the back. I turn to go, but he’s taken his off too and reaches out to grab my hand.  

“No need to look so miserable, Snow,” he smirks.  “I’m only going for a couple of days, I’m pretty sure you’ll survive without me for that long.” 

That’s not what I’d been worried about. 

“I… er…um…that is..” 

“Come here, you beautiful nightmare,” he says, pulling me to him.  “If you can’t use your mouth for speaking, at least put it to good use.”

The house feels cold and empty after the heat of Baz’s kiss.  At least the neighbours got a good show. I flop on the sofa, but I’m restless and kind of itchy and can’t put my finger on what was wrong. I wander from room to room, but can’t settle at anything. I pop to the Watford for a pint. I go home and eat something from the freezer. I go to bed.  

I spend the next two days trying not to think about how much I hate Baz’s father. I try not to think of how scared he was to be going home.  He didn’t think he showed it of course, but I could tell from the set of his jaw. It’s a big deal.  I mean, I’ve had to face some shit in my life, but my rejection has been from strangers.  I try not to think of Baz’s father, who is supposed to love his son unconditionally, sending him away because of his choice of university course. Of some faceless counsellor who fucked him up when there was nothing to fix.  I try not to think of the weeping boy I held in my arms on Christmas day.  I try not to think of those things as the anger threatens to boil the blood in my veins.  Instead I think about the three days we just spent together in a bubble. I think of Baz himself; Baz playing the guitar or the piano and singing softly, Baz taking photos as we walk along the seafront, Baz laughing – a rare and precious moment, Baz looking at me with his eyes like liquid storm clouds. His lips on mine. His skin on my skin. The heart-pounding, breath-taking, goose-bump inducing, newness of us. My blood still ends up boiling, but in a good way.  A way I can deal with.  

This morning, I tidy up a bit and do the shopping so that Penny won’t flip her shit when she gets back. I go to the Watford to do a shift and then I decide to have a walk along the seafront, to ensure I’m not at home when she and Agatha get in.   

Hence ending up in Ebb’s. 

I draw a sad face in the steamed up window of the café, then feel a bit embarrassed and wipe it away with the cuff of my hoodie.  

My phone pings. 

(14.40) I’m back 

(14.40) **You survived then?**  

(14.40) Apparently 

(14.41) **um… yeah, ok, obviously it’s just I know that it was really hard for you and that** **…**  

(14.41) You’re an idiot, Snow 

Great, we haven’t spoken in a couple of days and we’re back to prickly awkwardness. 

(14.43) Where are you anyway?  I came via Lincoln Street, but there was no-one in. 

Ha! He did miss me then.  Soft git. 

(14.43) **keen much?**  

(14.43) Fuck off.   

(14.44) I was just passing and thought I’d check you hadn’t burnt the place down. 

(14.44) **Yeah, but my house isn’t exactly on the way back to yours though is it?** **Admit it, you missed me :) :)**  

(14.45) Fine.   

(14.45) **:)**  

(14.45) Obviously, I’d just thought, I wonder what would top of a torturous couple of days with my Father? I know, going to watch my idiot boyfriend play Fifa in his trackies and Christmas jumper. 

(14.46) **Is that really how you see me?**  

(14.46) You _are_ extremely dense, Snow.  It’s lucky you’re so devastatingly handsome. 

(14.46) **No,** **I mean you think of me as** **your boyfriend** **?**  

I can almost hear him sighing. 

(14.46) Yes 

(14.46) I thought we’d already been through that. 

(14.46) **I know.** **I mean** **,** **good** **.**  

(14.47) So, now we’ve got that established, where are you anyway? 

(14.47) **At Ebb’s**  

(14.47) Give me ten minutes.   

 

It’s been nearly half an hour. 

A fresh cup of tea and a warm scone appear on the table.  

“Been stood up Si?”  

Ebb’s voice makes me start, even though her tone is soft. 

“What?” 

“No Penny today then?” 

“Oh, right. No, she’s in London with her family.  She’s back this evening though.” 

“So what you doing on yer own? Not got plans for this evening’?” 

“Just going to the Watford for a few pints with some Uni friends.  What about you?” 

“Me an’ Flo are getting too old for all that partying.  We’ll just sit in and watch Jools Holland I ‘spect.  Or maybe watch The Sound of Music and have a good sing song.  Always quite fancied being a lonely goatherd… before I met Flo that is.  Changed me life that one did.” 

Ebb’s nice.  She runs this place with her partner, Flo. They couldn’t be more different – Ebb’s a blonde, stocky, down-to-Earth Londoner, whilst Flo is tiny and dark and often seems away with the fairies.    

“What about you, Si?  Flo said you was in ‘ere with a fella the other day looking all loved-up.  Handsome by all accounts, although a bit dark for you, she says.  Still, look at me an’ her – opposites attract, I guess.”  

Just then my phone pings and I look at it, blushing furiously. 

“That him now is it?” 

I nod. 

“I’ll leave you in peace then.  Enjoy yer scone.  It’s on the house.  It’s dead in here today so it’ll only go to waste.” 

“Cheers, Ebb.” 

 ---

(15.13) **So I’ve been thinking**  

(15.13) That’ll be a first 

(15.13) **I’m going to put that snarky remark down to the fact that you’re excited to find out what I’ve been thinking**  

(15.14) The mind boggles, Snow. 

(15.14) **I didn’t get you a Christmas present so I’m taking you on the Pier for an afternoon of fun and excitement**  

(15.14) Over my dead body 

(15.14) **Come on, it’ll be fun you’ll see.  I’ll even take you on the rollercoaster…**  

 

Baz 

I’m actually going to kill him.  

Snow that is.  I didn’t speak of or to him for two days; my Father’s house in Hampshire is in some kind of weird dead spot for mobile phone signal and anyway I thought it would do him good to have a couple of days to get his head round things.  Not sure why I bothered.  He’s on fighting form. 

Going home ended up being far less painful than I expected. Fiona had been doing the groundwork for some time, so when I called her, she agreed to meet and go with me.  We didn’t announce ourselves, just walked in like it was nothing unusual. Luckily no one talks about their feelings in my family, so once my father had looked me up and down coolly, and said, “Basilton, you’re looking… well,” I figured that was as close as an apology as I was going to get and we spent the rest of the time pretty much ignoring each other. Practically back to normal then.     

Daphne seemed pleased to see me, a little embarrassed, not quite sure what to do with herself, but fine. The twins and the little ’un don’t really know me, but Mordelia made up for all of them.  She practically threw herself at me and was my shadow for the whole time, even sleeping in with me, chatting incessantly.  She seemed particularly interested in ‘Snowy’ and was worried about whether Niall had been jealous.  It was utterly exhausting. 

I’d never been so glad to be back in the flat.  

But anyway.  I am absolutely going to kill him.  That is if I don’t die on this small metal tin he’s crammed us into. Seriously, it’s not natural. And totally beneath me. Well, I’m not sure exactly what’s beneath me right now as I have my eyes tight shut and am holding onto the harness for grim life. Dear God how did I let him talk me into this?  

Simon of course is loving it.  His whoops of sheer joy are filling my head and I find myself using them as an anchor.  My jaw is clenched and every bone in my body is threatening to come loose. 

And then it’s over.  

I release the harness and step out onto legs that make Bambi on ice seem elegant and coordinated, cursing silently under my breath. Snow, the bastard, is laughing at me. 

“You alright Baz?  You look a bit pale.” 

“I’m always pale, in case you hadn’t noticed,” I hiss, trying not to be sick.  

I actually hate him right now, for making me look weak.  

“Oh.  Right.” 

He looks a bit disappointed. 

He’s such an idiot – I think he genuinely believed that I would enjoy it.   

I make my way gingerly to the edge of the Pier and lean on the railings looking over at the waves crashing below.  I shiver at the thought that some people actually swam there on Christmas day. It’s the sort of thing Snow would do.  And then I’m warmer.  Simon has wrapped his arms around me, his puffer jacket making a swooshing sound as he attempts to turn me round to face him.  His ridiculous curls are even crazier what with the damp air and being flung around by the roller coaster, and his cheeks are flushed. He swallows and my breath catches. 

“I’m sorry, Baz,” he says softly looking up at me, the lights from the pier reflecting in his eyes.  

I lean down and rest my forehead against his for a moment, letting out a shaky breath.  Christ what this boy does to me.   

“It’s okay,” I say.   

And I mean it.  I’d do pretty much anything he asked if it would make him happy.  I’d ride on a thousand rollercoasters.  I’d cross every line for him.  

We stay like that for a while, watching the starlings perform their mesmerising ballet over the stark lines of the old West Pier, as the sun turns the sky gold, then pink and purple before fading to the grey of twilight.  

“Come on, Snow,” I say, finally, “let’s go back to mine and get warmed up – I need a shower after the long ride I’ve had today.” 

“I guess it’s quite far from Hampshire on a motorbike,” he nods. 

“I meant the rollercoaster – I’ve never sweated so much in my life.” 

“Oh right,” he looks sheepish again.  It’s adorable.  

“I’m kidding, Snow. Anyway, you need something to eat if you’re going to last the night.  I’ve got some pasta back at home.” 

 ---

“I’m starving,” Simon moans as I chuck him the spare crash helmet on our way out of the flat.  

“And whose fault is that?” I ask, pulling the front door closed and heading down the stairs.  

All the while a slide show plays in my mind.  

 _A flash of tawny skin and a constellation of freckles_ _as a tight white t-shirt is being pulled over his head._  

“I was going to make us supper before we went out, but we ran out of time.” 

“I know, but does it really matter if we’re a bit late?” 

 _Denim stretching over toned footballers thighs as he bends down to pick up his shirt._  

“We’re already a bit late.  If we stop for food, we’re going to be very late and I’m not prepared to keep Penny waiting.  Or Wellbelove for that matter.  It’s not good manners and quite honestly I’d like to enjoy my evening, rather than being in their bad books.  I’ve already stolen you for too much of the holidays.” 

 _His open mouth as he stares at me coming into the room fresh, from the shower._  

I get on the bike, resting the helmet on my lap.  “Do you want to tell them it’s your fault we’re late?” 

“My fault?” 

“Yes. You kissed _me_ , Snow.” 

 _A growl, calloused hands pressed on my chest, the wall cold behind my back_ , _my towel dropping to the floor_ _._  

“Yeah, well you shouldn’t have come out of the shower looking all… like you do,” he nods at me, gesturing my general fitness with his hand. “You know, with your hair and skin and hips and stuff.”  

I stifle a laugh at his blustering. 

 “Have you ever heard of a thing called self-control?  I mean does deferred gratification mean anything to you? At all? No?” 

 _A taught stomach as the t-shirt comes straight back off again._ _Followed by the jeans, footballers thighs in their full glory._  

“I hadn’t seen you for two days, how much more ‘deferred’ do you expect?” 

“I can’t be held responsible for either my ridiculous good looks or your lack of restraint.” 

 _Bronze curls_ _brushing my forehead_ _as he leans over to kiss me._  

“Come on, get on, Snow, We’ll pick up something from the chippy on the corner of your street.” 

“Cheers, Baz,” he smiles, pushing his hair back before putting the helmet on and clambering onto the back of the bike.   

 _A trail of kisses and t_ _hose same bronze curls tickling my chest and my stomach._  

I put my own helmet on and shake my head to clear my mind, still wondering what I did to deserve this beautiful, honest, open boy who doesn’t even know if he’s gay, but is willing to follow his heart wherever it takes him.  All I can hope is that it stops with me and doesn’t lead him elsewhere.   

“Is everything okay?” he asks, his voice muffled by the helmet.  

I need to focus.   

“Fine,” I reply. 

As I turn the key in the ignition I might notice the jeans stretching over his thighs, but I don’t let myself think about them at all.  Concentrate on the road, Basilton.  Get a grip, there’s a good man.  

 ---

Simon all but inhales the chips in the time it takes to walk to the Watford.  Possibly a personal record he informs me gleefully.  Christ he’s a fucking tragedy.  

The pub is already packed when we get there, but Snow manages to push his way to the bar, with me following in his wake. The kid knows everyone and he smiles, claps people on the shoulder and calls “hey” to several groups as we work our way through the room.  It’s positively alarming; how does he have the energy for so much friendliness? He’s so alive.  

“What’ll it be?” Dave shouts over the hubbub of the pub.  

Snow leans over the bar, “Two pints of cider please, mate,” he says, without even checking with me.  

I wanted a pint of cider. But still… 

Someone bumps into me and I end up pressed right against him.  He smells amazing, a sweet, musky mixture of his shampoo and my bedsheets; there’d been no time for another shower afterwards.  It feels so overwhelming and new and I can’t help feeling like there’s a neon sign pointing down on us, alerting the world to our new status.  Not that I care, fuck them all.  But I wonder how he manages.   

Has he even told Dave about us?  

Speaking of, two pints are placed down on the bar towel in front of us. I go for my wallet.   

“Nah, you’re alright there Baz,” he says. “First one’s on me tonight lads, happy New Year, eh?” 

“Cheers, mate,” Simon says grinning.  “My round then Baz.” 

Cheeky bastard. 

I reach round him to grab my glass, pressing closer to him, my cheek brushing his hair, nudging him with my hips, just slightly. His ears go pink.  

“Your friends are already here,” Dave says. If he noticed anything between us, he doesn’t let on, or care. Instead he nods to the far side of the room, without missing a beat, “Over there, next to the fire.” 

Great news.  Simon always runs hot; he’ll have to strip down to that tight white tee. Lucky me. We turn to check where they are and Simon freezes, his pint half way to his mouth.  

Penny and Wellbelove are there aright, but from the look on Agatha’s face and Penny’s raised eyebrows and guilty expression, and the hand gestures, and the waving of her phone, I get the impression that she’s trying to tell us that she may, possibly, or in fact definitely, not have had the chance to tell Agatha about us yet.   

Simon 

You don’t have to be an expert in lip reading to see that Agatha has just said, “What the fuck is Baz Pitch doing here?” 

Unless by some miracle she was referring to the perfectly innocent woman standing next to me and was saying, “What the fuck is that bitch doing here?”  But as it’s highly unlikely that she could have anything against a total stranger, I’m guessing she meant Baz. 

That and the fact that in a case of classic timing there’s a lull in conversation that her next words ring out clear as crystal across the bar. “And why is he looking so chummy with Simon all of a sudden?” 

My face flushes hot and itchy.  But I’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m not going to feel guilty; she and I were over a long time ago and I have the right to be with whomever I choose.   

Even if that person is a boy. And someone who she’d taken quite a fancy to.  I’m not sure which is bothering her most.  I look up at Baz; he hasn’t moved or said anything yet. His face is unreadable. Cool, distant, mouth slightly downturned, all trace of the humour gone from round his eyes. 

“Hey, Baz?” 

He looks down at me, “Hmmn?” 

“Come on, you’ve faced your father and family in the last few days, one small blonde is nothing in comparison.  It’s just Agatha.” 

He seems to snap out of his funk and almost smiles, “Yes, but I find her infinitely more intimidating than my father.” 

“Yeah, but it’s _Agatha_ _,_ she’ll get over it, she just doesn’t like being the last to know stuff,” I say, sending up a silent prayer that I’m right about this.  

I beckon Dave, and swiftly order a gin and tonic and a Desperado.   

“You take the pints,” I say, taking a deep breath and crossing the bar to where Penny is now sitting on her own. 

I put their drinks on the table and pull out the two small stools they’ve managed to secrete under the table. I frown at Penny.   

“I’m sorry, Simon.  I didn’t know what I was allowed to say! I did say you were bringing someone, but I didn’t think she’d come if I told her Baz was going to be here.” 

“But that was the whole idea, get the shock and the strop out of the way.  Has she left?” 

“No, she’s just gone to the loo, probably to calm down a bit. Her train was late, so we literally had time to drop her bags back at the house before coming here.  I wanted to make sure we had a table and,” she says, looking at me over the top of her glasses, “unlike some people, I didn’t want to be late.” 

Baz smirks, with an ‘I told you so’ expression.  

“But Penny…” I start. 

“I did send you several messages, I tried to warn you.”  

I get my phone out and see the string of messages.  Baz squeezes my thigh briefly, “She’s coming back, how do you want to play this?” 

“I’m not ashamed, Baz,” I growl. 

“I know, love, but it’s very new...” 

He called me love.  I know it’s a common term of endearment, but hearing it from his lips makes my heart swell.  It fills me up with courage and a sense of calm that I never thought was possible.  

I stand to greet her. “Hey Ags,” I smile, as if nothing is wrong. 

“Hello, Simon,” she says, more graciously and controlled that I was expecting.  

She slips back into her seat and pokes at the lemon and ice in her gin with the thin black straw. 

“So, Penny said you were bringing someone.  I kind of expected a girlfriend from the way she spoke.” 

“I.. um came with Baz.” 

“But why? I mean… Baz is dark and you’re… not. He’s an Emo, and you’re a footballer, how are you two even friends?” she splutters 

“Er…” so much for the new-found confidence. It obviously doesn’t stretch to eloquence. 

“He’s also right here.” Baz says, trying to hide a smirk.  

“Yes, Sorry Baz,” she dashes off with a wave of her hand, like it has little significance before fixing her attention on Penny.     

“Yes, but I still don’t get why he’s here? What made you invite him of all people? You told me he didn’t fancy me because he’s gay.” 

Fucking Agatha, she still thinks the world revolves around her love life.  

“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure you believed it.” 

Agatha’s eyebrows are almost touching in the middle. “I absolutely believed it. I mean it makes sense doesn’t it?”

“It’s true,” Baz confirms, “hence the impeccable dress sense and general coolness.” 

I roll my eyes at him, huffing slightly. 

“Wait – Simon did you know he was gay?” 

“Um, not immediately, no.  But I.. um became aware of it more recently, since we became, er, friends.” 

“But Baz hates you! How did you end up friends?” 

“I know, it did seem that way, but… um.. it’s a long story and anyway, we’re sort of boyfriends now.” 

I didn’t know anyone’s eyebrows could get that high. 

“But you’re not even gay, Simon,” she gasps.

And there it is.

Why is this such a big deal to everyone? Boy, girl, what does it matter? I loved Agatha once and now I love Baz (I love Baz? Okay I’ll deal with that later). Baz is the only boy I’ve ever liked, but then Ags is the only girl I’ve ever liked too. I guess it’s the person that counts to me not their gender.  I don’t know what that makes me, but I really don’t care.

“I’m not sure what I am, Aggie, to be totally honest - I don’t really feel the need for a label.  But I’m with Baz and we’re all here to celebrate New Year together.” I lift my pint glass.  She’s still not touched the gin and tonic I bought her, except to prod the lemon. I pick it up and hand it to her, then drop my arm round Baz’s shoulders. “To friends, old and new, and to new beginnings,” I propose.  

“Hear, hear!” Baz and Penny say, clinking their drinks with mine.   

We all stare at Agatha, who nods her head as if satisfied that the pieces are all in place. Got to give it to her, she doesn’t hold a grudge and is always willing to move on.   

“Hear, hear,” she smiles.   

When she goes to the bar to get another round in, Penny and Baz have just finished catching up on the joys of families at Christmas. I should go and give her a hand with the drinks, but I’m comfortable and dozy by the fire, listening to my best friend and my boyfriend chatting animatedly. It’s so warm, I end up in just my t-shirt and have to supress a laugh when Baz loses his train of thought half way through an argument with Penny (about some period drama I’ve never seen but vaguely remember her mentioning a lifetime ago). He’s giving me the same look he gave me earlier; like I’m something he’d gladly eat. 

Agatha must notice him staring as she crosses the bar.  She’s smiling delicately, but there is a wicked glint in her eye.  “So, Baz,” she says as she puts a tray of drinks and crisps on the table. “Have you written any songs about Simon and his white t-shirt yet?” 

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Baz blush before.   

It’s a glorious sight.


End file.
